To Touch Insensate
by Nomadic Soul
Summary: It is in the undefined stasis between sleeping and waking that my demons surface to torment me. Sara's POV. Casefile. GSR.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note (added 5.9.06): So, I obviously decided to continue my ramble, turn it into a multi-chapter endeavor. (20? 25? I honestly don't know. I've got the first 12 mapped out, and a pretty solid ending in mind, but getting from Point A to Point B is _not _always a straight line for me.) Anyway, my initial story-concept has sort of morphed into more of a prequel, with Chapters 1 and 2 being Sara's solo exploration into the demons of her past. So, if self-introspective angstiness isn't your thang, Chapter 3 is where the casefiley/lab stuff actually begins. Hope you enjoy! -- Nomadic Soul

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Author's note: So, I'm mildly (incredibly) nervous about posting my writing online, as this is the first fiction (fan or otherwise) that I've written in a long time, quite possibly since middle school. (Which was a surprisingly large number of years ago, when I sit down and actually do the math.) This story arose from an idea that kept plaguing me, bouncing around incessantly in my head, until I was forced to release the words on paper, for the sake of my sanity if nothing else. I never intended to take it any further than this… Frankly, I never intended to do _any_thing with it, other than to get it to stop rattling around in my brain. But now that I've opened the dam, some new ideas have started brewing in the ol' cranium, including a casefile angle. So, I'd vastly appreciate any constructive criticism, advice, and/or recommendations from you, dear readers. Continue? And positive reinforcement is always nice too…

Spoilers: Significant references to Nesting Dolls and Committed.

Rating: Umm… Not really sure of the ratings system. Erring on the side of caution with a 'T'.

Disclaimer: I own very little, and certainly not the characters portrayed below. I do own my car, which at this moment happens to be dead. (Although I'm sincerely hoping that it is 'dead' in the _Princess Bride_ definition of the word. Meaning that it's only 'mostly dead.' Meaning that it's 'slightly alive.' Meaning that I'll be able to resurrect it without incurring massive credit card debt. Because if it's 'all dead,' well, then, damn.)

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**Chapter 1**

Sleep, that elusive and seductive siren, once again evades my entreating grasp. I hover, on the cusp of consciousness, but not yet ready to relinquish entirely the tendrils of dreams that taunt me, haunt me, with their proximity, before trickling through my fingers like ebbing waves on a beach, leaving me with only a vague disquietude, a settled unease. The _con_tent of my dreams stubbornly eludes me, but the _in_tent retains a stark clarity – a dark and macabre foreboding.

It is in this transition, this undefined stasis between sleeping and waking, that my demons surface to torment me. Consciousness allows me to restrain them behind my carefully constructed barriers, buried in the darkest corners of my mind; and when they arise in my nightmares, the adrenaline surge that fear provokes allows me to battle them back into their gated cells. I still confront them, daily, but the steel bars of their prisons lend steel to my determination to conquer them. However, in the half-aware state between dreams and reality, the demons escape their caged prisons; in the semi-conscious realm where the boundaries between the real and the unreal disintegrate, they ease upon me unsuspectingly, adopting the guise of innocence before revealing their tortured souls. _My_ tortured soul.

Seeking to elude the darkness threatening to engulf me, I focus on the sunlight filtering around the edges of the heavy curtains that I installed years ago, in a futile attempt to deceive my body's natural circadian rhythm. As Helios' rays penetrate the shadows, a chuckle escapes my lips, mirthless but laden with irony, as I think that, no matter how comprehensive a shield I construct, there always seems to be a chink in my armor.

The juxtaposition of light and dark, of sunshine and shadow, casts a mesmerizing spell, tugging me away from consciousness and back toward sleep's embrace, leaving me suspended in the doorway between dreams and reality. I feel my demons rattling their cages, and the walls of their prisons crumble slightly.

I absent-mindedly observe the minutely detectable progression of sunlight across the burnished mahogany of my hardwood floor. Creeping along the folds of the tousled blankets. Kissing the exposed skin of my calf in ultraviolet caresses. I extend one hand into the path of the oncoming light, to have geometric designs etched on my open palm with a stylus of sunbeams. I examine the sun's dappled impression on my skin, noting that it leaves no measurable trace of its passage, no lasting imprint of its presence.

I think of the imprints _I_ leave behind, the traces of _my_ passage. I think of the reciprocity of touch. Weaving in and out of consciousness, I think of how I weave in and out of the fabric of other people's lives, sometimes being an integral fiber to the tapestry of their existence, sometimes being no more than a stray thread. I think of the impressions created when two lives collide, like ripples across still water, whether the collision is a single, isolated encounter or a lifetime of contact. I think of the impressions I make on others' lives, and the impressions they make on mine. I think of how these impressions can be catalogued, quantified, categorized, in a spectrum of touches. Some are fleeting, ephemeral, transient. Some are permanent, a tattoo on my brain, a brand on my heart.

Sometimes it's as fleeting as the whisper of a caress across the back of my neck, a gentle brushing of shoulders as I pass a stranger on a crowded sidewalk. Sometimes it's more lasting – a firm handshake, a warm arm draped comfortingly across my shoulders. Sometimes it's incredibly intense, but ultimately momentary – two gazes locked in a visual embrace, protons and electrons inexorably seeking their opposite charge, but the magnetism, once severed, is never able to reformulate. Sometimes it's painful, but again transient – the sharp crack of my shin against a coffeetable, leaving a butterfly-shaped bruise of violet and indigo, which eventually fades through the rainbow into nothingness. But sometimes a touch, a person, leaves permanent traces – a cut which heals, but will always bear a scar, a physical remnant of a previous contact, an indelible reminder of a past encounter.

I think of how not all scars are physical, not all wounds visible. Of how it is the unseen injuries that are the most dangerous, the most perfidious, because there is no way of knowing whether they are truly healing. There's no convenient scab, fading over time into a slightly elevated discoloration, eventually diminishing further, until only a faint blemish remains on my skin, a mere echo of the original trauma. No, the internal scars, the ones carried underneath the skin, the wounds that weep silent tears of blood, invisible to the world, invisible to my_self_ even, are the most insidious. Because I can't see the scab, can't verify that it isn't being poked and prodded, worried at like a disobedient puppy with a beloved sneaker. I can't ensure that infection isn't festering below the surface.

I think of how my mother bore the knife. And of how my father bled from the resulting wounds. And of how _I_ am the one bleeding still. Of how the knife sliced my father's skin, but it stabbed _my_ soul. Of how, even now, I can still feel the icy steel of that blade, piercing inside me, tearing into my life and leaving behind only tattered shreds. I think of how, through the years, I had managed to delude myself into believing that those internal wounds had healed, had scabbed over, had formed their crusty scars; that the steel prisons I constructed in my mind would suffice to keep the demons confined, restrained, subdued.

I think, self-deprecatingly, of how easily those wounds were reopened, raw and gaping, by force of a few softly spoken words and an earnest gaze, a gentle prodding from the man who has inflicted me with a hundred internal nicks and bruises over the years, with his unintentional callousness and his words-unspoken. The same man who has soothed and balmed an equal number of such wounds.

_I want to know why you're so angry._

His entreating tone reverberates throughout the darkest chambers of my psyche, his words acting as keys to the prison cells, releasing the hordes, the horrors, of my memory. He cut open my old wounds, forcing me to face them, as they bled inside me, as _I_ bled tears, scrambling to hold the edges of the wound closed, to keep the pain, the emotion, from bleeding out. Because it isn't blood that flows from this wound, it's pieces of my soul, escaping through the ragged edges; it is laughs that will never cross my lips, smiles that will never grace my face, tears that will never be shed, whether in joy or in sorrow. He cut me open, unleashing my hidden demons from their buried prisons.

And yet… And yet, his hands were there, alongside mine, gathering the tattered fabric of my soul, holding the wound closed, applying pressure to stem the bleeding. His hand reached out to grasp mine. Touching me.

I think of how his hand became my tether to reality, keeping me from descending to the realm where my demons reside. I think of how my hand became that of my 13-year old self, and of how I clasped his hand with the same fervor and desperation that I clung to the hand of a nameless and faceless woman two decades earlier. Of how that contact, that touch, was a lifeline, grounding me from the horrors hovering on the inside of my eyelids.

I think of another touch – the cool, slightly gritty caress of unglazed porcelain, thrumming in tempo with the pulse of my carotid. Words spring unbidden from the shadowy depths of my memory, no coherence to them, no fluidity, just flashes of recognition, like a photo album with every third picture missing:

_Vibrating… a certain frequency… 10,000 cycles a second…_

I think, self-mockingly and -disparagingly, of how I've now incorporated the insane musings of a homicidal rapist into my self-examination. But then I think, half in detached rationality, half in barely repressed revulsion, of the commonalities I share with Adam Trent. After all, we're both simply trying to escape from the ghosts of our genetics, the specters of our family. The difference is that his ghosts are still flesh and blood, while mine exist solely in the gated confines of my memory; his prison walls are real, whereas mine are constructed from the matter of my psyche.

His words continue to echo in my mind:

_Spiritual person?... Bad things… karmic lesson…_

I feel the insistent press of porcelain against my neck. Porcelain on skin. Porcelain…skin. Pressing deeper. Deeper. Porcelain becoming scarlet as it presses deeper still…

With a half-strangled gasp, I jerk upright in my bed, my hands rising to grapple with the phantom arm of Adam Trent, the skin of my neck instinctively cringing from the illusory touch of porcelain. I know, rationally, that the ceramic fragment is securely stored in the evidence locker at the lab. Nevertheless, as my hand comes to rest on my carotid's pulsepoint, I swear that I can detect a slight indentation underneath my fingertips. But, as I catch my reflection in the mirror, I see that the only thing touching my neck is an isolated spear of sunlight.

As I study the reflection, the moment seems to exist in a surreal reversal of time and physics, a photographic negative of reality, where black is white, light is dark, and color reduced to shades of grey. I see myself, my breath coming in shallow bursts, the erratic thrumming of my heartbeat galloping through my veins, my hands still raised in self-defense, that lone shaft of sunlight continuing to pierce my neck. I see the attack in stark negative, and, in the heavily shadowed background, I can almost discern the ghostly outline of Adam Trent.

My gaze remains fixated on the reflection, until sunlight stabs my right eye, and I blink, causing the ghostly mirage in the mirror to vanish. I now see only myself, swathed in shadow, with sunlight pooling at my feet. The waking nightmare is over. But I remain all too aware of the demons currently roaming unfettered across the landscape of my psyche – they've once again escaped their hidden prisons. And I remember the dark and macabre foreboding of my dreams…


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: This chapter has Sara playing the solo role once again, with more angsty self-introspection. But the rest of the gang will be appearing hereafter. I know that not much has happened yet, that there's a noticeable absence of action, but a casefile is definitely in the works, to start in the next chapter or two. And, as this is very much a work-in-progress, any comments, insight, criticism (of the constructive variety), advice, and recommendations would be supremely appreciated.

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**Chapter 2**

Seeking to dispel the psychological darkness encroaching upon my mind, to disperse the demons amassing on the fringes of my psyche, I extricate myself from the tangled web of blankets and bedsheets ensnaring my extremities. Striding over to my bedroom window, I thrust the thick curtains aside, allowing the mid-afternoon sunlight to spill into the room. My eyelids instinctively flutter closed against the dazzling onslaught of sunshine, and I pivot blindly, turning my back to the window. I open my eyes in measured intervals, allowing my pupils to gradually adjust to the brilliant natural illumination. Vision restored, I see that the sunlight has successfully conquered the darkness, leaving behind only a few unvanquished shadows, scattered in the corners of the room. I tell myself that the sunlight was equally victorious in banishing my demons into _their_ shadowed recesses, into _their_ caged prisons. But the argument lacks conviction, and I sense them lurking still, on the periphery of my consciousness.

Turning to bathe myself in the light at the window, I idly finger the heavy fabric of the curtains, tracing invisible patterns with my fingertips. Suddenly, without preamble, the air feels as if it's been infused with an electrostatic charge, elevating all of my nerve endings to the brink of firing, action potentials hovering just below threshold, a featherweight touch from triggering the neural pathway from receptor to brain. I become conscious of a hyper-acuity of touch, a heightened awareness of tactile sensation. In the heavy twill of the curtains, I detect every individual interwoven fiber, each thread in isolation, brushing against the epidermal cells of my fingertips.

I wonder what provoked this hyper-sensitivity, suspecting that the answer lies in my recent waking nightmare, my half-lucid musings on the reciprocity of touch. The phantom contact of porcelain against my neck. The photographic negative of Adam Trent in the mirror. My eyes flicker, slightly apprehensively, to that reflective surface, irrationally expecting to see his ghostly visage once again, returning my gaze with absent eyes. But my misgivings are unfounded, as only cheery sunlight reflects back at me, illuminating the room and expelling the shadows. Nevertheless, I find my hand unconsciously, involuntarily, instinctively returning to the side of my neck, fingertips lightly caressing the skin.

Roaming.

Searching.

Seeking.

A scar, a scab, some residual trace of trauma.

And, for the first time, with my current hyper-sensitive touch, I _can_ detect an injury. Buried. Not outwardly visible. No external evidence. Underneath the skin. But unequivocally there. With fingertips suddenly capable of differentiation on a cellular level, the scar is patently tangible. Another unhealed wound, hidden from view.

I wonder, with detached curiosity, if I were to raise my shirt and run my fingers across the skin of my chest, would I be able to detect the hidden scars _there_, the invisible wounds that my mother inflicted upon my father, that became etched onto my soul?

Suddenly, the sunlight filling the room seems to acquire a heaviness, an inexplicable gloom, as if the glass panes of the window lost their transparency, becoming tinted with shadow. As if the battle between light and dark, between sunshine and shadow, was resurrected. I can almost palpably feel the darkness, the demons rising, growing, expanding outward from the shadowed corners where they lurked quiescently. A build-up of potential energy permeates the atmosphere, humming, vibrating, like lightning coiling to strike. Time is suspended in that moment, that half-second just before the visible jagged line flares, uniting the earth and the heavens, leaving behind the unmistakable whiff of ozone. A tense anticipation floods the room. Tense. And dark.

I abandon my bedroom, fleeing the piercing insight and introspection that the mirror provokes, illuminating corners of my subconscious better left in shadow, unearthing memories better left buried, unleashing demons long-restrained, exposing wounds long-concealed.

Collapsing on the couch in my living room, a quick glance informs me that it's only 3 o'clock. Even _I_ can't justify arriving at the lab that early. Well-aware that I'm already approaching my allotted overtime quota for the month, I know that Grissom would have my hide if I tacked on another eight hours. Seeking distraction of any variety, I try to read, scooping up the latest edition of the _Journal of Theoretical Physics_ from my coffeetable, but the words swim elusively from my comprehension, as I become preoccupied with the silken texture of the glossy pages beneath my fingers.

_Perhaps the radio_, I muse, adjusting the dial to NPR. But the slapstick banter of the comedic duo of Click and Clack on _CarTalk_ proves too mentally challenging for my fractured concentration to process. Instead, I find myself mesmerized by the sensation of the suede leather of the couch under my open palm, brushing back and forth.

In desperation, I turn to the television. When I realize that I've cycled past the talk-show, depicting individuals threatening one another with folding chairs, for the third time, I disgustedly toss the remote aside.

I simply can't concentrate. I'm unable to focus, instead being bombarded with tactile input. Flooded. Overloaded with sensory data. Data normally dismissed as insignificant by my brain. But now, it's as if my filters are absent, and my brain, already exhausted from last night's insomnia, is having to pull a triple to compensate.

I feel like a caged hamster, endlessly, futilely cycling its wheel. Going nowhere. Never escaping. My apartment suddenly feels too small, its comfortable familiarity morphing into an oppressive, claustrophobic prison. Trapped inside, with the demons of my past as roommates.

Snatching my keys from their berth on the kitchen countertop, I climb into my car and begin to drive. Having no destination. Just away. _Any_where. Away from the suffocation, the darkness, the lurking demons. After thirty minutes, feeling slightly ridiculous at the irrationality of my fears and the impulsivity of my action, I decide to justify my impromptu outing with a trip to the grocery store, trusting that it won't be too mentally taxing.

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Under the abrasive fluorescent lights of the supermarket, the invading demons appear to retreat. Slightly. Equipped with no shopping list and, in my current scattered mental state, unable to recall the contents of my cupboards, I stroll the aisles aimlessly, absent-mindedly depositing various items into the basket dangling from the crook of my elbow, as I hum wordlessly along with the muzak filtering through the air. But, when I find myself in the clichéd pose – mid-aisle, studiously comparing the nutritional content of what I find to be two identical jars of pimiento olives – I release a tense, self-mocking laugh, and realize that I need to leave.

I don't even _like_ olives.

Returning to my apartment, I gently toss the lone bag of groceries onto the counter and begin extracting the items. Due to my distracted state, I have no idea _what_ I actually purchased. Mild curiosity shifts to bemusement, before morphing into utter bafflement:

Two avocados.

A jar of peanut butter.

A box of band-aids, depicting various animated characters.

A bottle of Worcestershire sauce.

A container of tofu.

And a can of pureed beets.

Eyeing the random medley in front of me, I shake my head ruefully.

Damn, I really need to get some sleep.

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I go for a run in the crisp dusk air. Over half-a-decade spent in Vegas, and I'm still surprised by the unexpected coolness of the desert nights. As my feet carry me unconsciously along my familiar route in a rhythmic stride, my hyper-acuity persists. The cadenced SLAP, SLAP, SLAP of my footfalls sets a metronomic pulse, bringing a graceful fluidity to my motions, a sense of unity, of connectivity throughout my body.

The pounding of the soles of my feet against the asphalt, the reverberations traveling up my shins, through my knees, along my femurs, to my hips, into my spine.

The sharp bite of thebrisk air as it penetrates my lungs.

The friction of my arms brushing against my sides as they swing in synchrony with my stride.

The path that a droplet of sweat traces on my skin, from my hairline, down my forehead, across my cheek, dropping to my collarbone, before being absorbed into the fabric of my shirt.

A telltale splash disrupts my trance. Looking down, I find myself stationary, in a shallow puddle. Not deep enough to submerge my shoes or even dampen my socks, but my soles leave distinctive tread patterns as I move to jog onward. The imprint of my shoe, as it slowly evaporates, disappearing into the dusk Vegas air, mesmerizes me, and my thoughts return to my half-conscious musings of that afternoon. Of the imprints I make on the lives of others. Of the imprints they make on mine. Like footprints across the terrain of my existence.

As I resume jogging along my proscribed route, I attempt to mentally classify my colleagues… my friends… my surrogate family, really… in the spectrum of touches:

Greg is high-fives and ruffled hair.

Nick is unquestionably a bear-hug, grizzly in intensity yet cuddly in ferocity.

Warrick is a different embrace: two infinitely capable hands, offering a friendly yet firm squeeze to my shoulders from behind.

Catherine presents more of a challenge. She is a dual pair of cheek-to-cheek kisses, teetering on the cusp of sincerity, as yet undetermined which way the pendulum will swing in finality, maneuvering the fine line between warmth and superficiality.

Brass is an arm, slung semi-awkwardly across my shoulder, offering a reassuring pat.

And then… Then, there's Grissom.

_Grissom_, I sigh, releasing a deep breath.

Grissom defies categorization, defies classification or quantification. He simply… is. Everything. And nothing. Simultaneously. He's a comforting hand reaching out, and an absent hand never arriving. He's the tender caress of a butterfly's wings on my cheek, and the ghost of a breeze through my hair. He's a lover's embrace blanketing my body, my soul, from the cruel world surrounding me, and he's the thief that steals the blanket away. He's the hand outstretched to pull me to safety, but never quite manages to make contact with my skin. Grissom is a lifetime of touches, no two of which could ever be duplicated.

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I re-enter my apartment, physically drained but simultaneously energized from the exertion. Nightfall is incipient, but light from the streetlamps outside is sufficient for me to navigate my apartment unscathed, so I refrain from switching on a lamp. Passing through the doorway into my bedroom, I'm unable to restrain the reflexive shudder that courses through my body – the room is once again shrouded in darkness, deepening shadows ever-expanding in the unlit corners. But, unlike this afternoon, where darkness was the artificially-created imposter and natural sunlight the unwelcome intruder, now it is the darkness that is real, the light that is artificial.

My gaze shifts, unbidden, to the mirror, my mind summoning involuntarily the image from a few hours earlier – the specter of Adam Trent, the phantom press of porcelain – and my hands fly automatically to my neck, to stave off the oncoming assault, as adrenaline laces my bloodstream, my pulse gallops unchecked, and my breathing becomes shallow and accelerated.

Unwillingly compelled to once again relive those horrific moments, my eyes ensnared by the three-dimensional display of memories on the mirror, I realize with a startling clarity that the reflection before me is the scene replayed from Grissom's perspective. Through the looking-glass darkly. I remember the unbridled panic in his eyes, see it mirrored now in my own. The soul-piercing intensity of his gaze, and I'm reminded that touches needn't always be physical.

I remember how I fled from the glass-walled prison of the nurses' station, only to thrust myself against the caged window of another prison. I was trapped; I couldn't escape the prisons, couldn't escape my past. My demons had surfaced to confront me once again, only this time, I had descended into their territory. The prison walls weren't penning _them_ out, they were penning _me_ in.

That evening, standing there in that dimly-lit hallway, looking out as the Vegas sky wept silent tears of rain, I felt my old scars ripping open, felt the slow trickle of tears bleed from re-opened wounds. My deeply-buried secrets, exposed once again to his penetrating gaze. And yet, as the demons of my past and present collided, while I was trapped in my self-constructed prison, he stood there beside me. I remember his concerned inquiries, his gentle words and sympathetic glances, as yet another specter from my past was made visible to him.

A sudden chill courses through my sweaty frame. Unsure if it's because of the ghostly mirage that just flickered across my consciousness, or simply my body's natural cool-down response following my recent exertion, I hasten in to the bathroom, turning on the light, craving heat from any source. When the steam billows from behind the shower curtain, I climb in, hoping the water will wash away the dark foreboding along with the sheen of sweat coating my skin. Hoping the heat will erase the chill that's blanketed my soul since waking. I breathe deeply of the steam-saturated air, trying to physically draw the warmth inside me, into my lungs, beneath my skin. After standing underneath the scalding spray for half-an-hour, my cherry-red skin testifies that, superficially, I was successful. But internally, my soul remains within the frigid clasp of macabre portent.

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As I go about preparing for work, I remain conscious of a hyper-awareness to my skin, but thankfully, the all-consuming distraction of earlier has dissipated. _At least_, I sardonically muse_, I'm capable of basic arithmetic again_. I simply find myself noticing things normally unnoticed.

The cool sweep of air against my skin, as I exit the steam-laden bathroom.

The scratch of bristles across my scalp, as I wrestle a brush through the tangled mass of my unruly hair.

I don clothing with little deliberation over color or style, but am overly-conscious of the gentle rasp of denim against my thigh, as I pull my jeans to snugly embrace my hips.

My hand keeps returning, with unconscious volition, to rest on my neck, as if to reassure me that there is nothing there. And I find myself in front of the mirror, illogically searching once again for visible evidence of the trauma. Whether externally noticeable or not, I feel that it's on display, irritated and raw, for everyone to see. _A scarf_, I decide, needing to shield it from view, however irrational the need.

I select a mutli-colored, hand-knit scarf, its woven threads intertwined in a measurable, quantifiable sequence, resulting in a coherent whole. My fingers trace the pattern, the silken texture of cashmere caressing the calloused skin of my fingertips, the soft fabric piercing the hardened calluses more effectively than a razor's blade.

Tugging on my well-worn boots, the laces abrade the skin on my fingers as I pull them taut.

Grasping the cool metal of the doorknob with one hand, I switch off the lights with the other, giving darkness uncontested reign of my apartment.

As the door latches closed behind me, I add one final layer to my attire – pulling on a façade like a protective cloak. Over the decades, I've become very adept at concealing my demons. My emotions – happiness, anger, empathy – those I display freely, openly. But my demons, my past, I will always attempt to hide.

From the world.

And from myself.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Enter the rest of the Vegas night shift. Poor Sara's been having a rough time so far, so consider this a well-deserved break from her angst-ridden self-examination.

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**Chapter 3**

As I pull into the parking lot of the lab, the LCD display on my dash reads 8:06. Three hours early to shift. Eesh. I don't need Grissom awkwardly fumbling through a conversation to remind me that I'm already precariously close to spending my allotted overtime allowance for the month. Well, I'll just have to lay low, fly under Grissom's radar 'til shift starts. Fortunately, considering that 'obtusely oblivious' is his standard operating mode, I feel reasonably assured of success.

Entering the lab, I nod in greeting to Kathy, the Swing shift receptionist, with whom I have an unspoken agreement _not_ to discuss my nonconformist interpretation of time. Depositing my belongings in the locker-room, I head off toward the evidence vault – the Carlson case was closed yesterday, meaning that all of the evidence needs to be logged and sealed in preparation for final storage. A tedious, but necessary, chore. Glimpsing telltale illumination filtering through the closed blinds of Grissom's office, I perform an abrupt about-face, detouring away from possible detection. I mutter, "Overtime hypocrite," under my breath, as I stalk off to assume my three-hour sentence of shuffling papers and double-checking evidence seals.

Three hours later, everything satisfyingly stowed and filed in its proper place, completed paperwork in hand, I ease into Grissom's office, releasing a relieved sigh that its resident is _in absentia_. Our relationship of late, while not completely regaining the level of easy camaraderie and casual flirtation characterizing my first years in Vegas, has acquired a tenuous equilibrium that I don't wish disrupted by a confrontation over my recent over-zealous work ethic.

I slip into my unofficial chair around the breakroom table mere seconds before Grissom ambles in, armed with a sheaf of dispatch slips, and begins dispensing assignments without preamble:

"Nick, you and Warrick are on a double homicide. Shooting in the warehouse district. Vega's on the scene, says it's probably gang-related."

This revelation is met with groans from the boys. Gang-related shoot-outs rarely result in a closed case.

Unperturbed, Grissom blithely continues: "Catherine, you're solo tonight. A 402 in Spring Valley."

"Possible arson?" Catherine asks with interest.

"According to dispatch, the structure burned completely to the ground. And," referring to the paper in his hand before passing it off to her, "there's a record of escalating dispute between the two neighbors."

"And you want me solo on this?" she asks, mildly incredulous. "Grissom, arson cases are notoriously messy. I'm gonna need some—"

Grissom placidly interjects, "The 'structure' was a doghouse."

"A _dog_house?" Catherine echoes, a noticeable edge to her voice. I hear her mutter a barely audible, "That's definitely where _you're_ gonna be by the end of shift," and choke back a chuckle.

Grissom, typically oblivious, continues, "Greg, I need you in the lab tonight. A memo from the Swing supervisor says—"

Catherine interrupts with a skeptical scoff, "Wha, you? Actually read a memo?"

"It was taped over my tarantula's cage," he explains complacently. "I figured someone thought it was important."

Directing his attention back to Greg, Grissom recommences, "It seems that Swing had two cross-contaminated samples last shift." To the unasked question, he supplies, "From Compliance. One of the techs from Days. So, Greg, I need you to help Wendy. Find the source of the contamination, and then the whole DNA lab needs to be sterilized – every piece of equipment, all surfaces. Everything."

"Floor-to-ceiling whitewash. Got it."

Grissom turns to exit the breakroom, a clear gesture that assignments are over. I shift restlessly in my seat, about to question my omission, when he pre-empts me:

"Sara, you still have several hours of processing left to wrap up the Carlson case?" His question comes out more statement than inquiry.

"Boxed and booked already, Grissom. Evidence is logged in the vault, paperwork's on your desk."

One eyebrow quirks above his glasses at this admission and, under his appraising glance, I realize that I just confessed my early arrival that evening. Oops. So much for flying under the radar.

"Very well," he says noncommittally. Handing you a dispatch slip, he says, "Trick-roll at a Gas-'N-Go off the Strip."

Nick offers me a sympathetic smile at my unfortunate assignment, but I actually find myself looking forward to processing the scene. Convenience stores are second only to hotel bathrooms in the quantity of fingerprints, and I find something inherently soothing and satisfying in the repetitive process of lifting prints. Hypnotic almost. It'll keep my mind diverted, anyway, from thoughts I'd rather not think right now. Jacquie won't be speaking to me for a week, of course, when I present her with 42 smudged partials, but I prefer the cold shoulder to the cold demons currently haunting my psyche.

My diversion, however, is disappointingly short-lived. _Before_ I even break out my dusting powder.

Arriving on the scene, I find the distraught cashier being comforted by a burly man, presumably her boyfriend. Playing the surveillance tapes in the manager's office, I watch as a masked individual – male, Caucasian, 5'10", approximately 220 pounds, my brain automatically observes – enters the store, brandishing a gun. My brain also notes a distinctive tattoo on the forearm of the would-be bandit. A tattoo of a bald eagle superimposed over the Confederate flag. A tattoo I recognize. A tattoo I had just seen. On the arm of the cashier's consoling paramour. Confronted, he brokenly confesses, and she pleadingly asks if she's going to be fired.

_Some people_, I inwardly reflect, _simply aren't suited for a life of crime._ But, until stupidity is made punishable by law…

* * *

Paperwork from the aborted trick-roll finished and nestled in Grissom's still-brimming inbox, I'm surprised to discover that it's already mid-shift. My stomach selects that moment to remind me that my pre-shift meal was more than a handful of hours ago. And an apple is not very substantial anyway.

On my way to the breakroom, I pass a harried-looking Nick, arms bristling with evidence bags. "Twenty-three bullets. Thirty-nine casings. Bobbie's gonna _kill_ me," he says, as he turns into Ballistics.

Settling down in the breakroom, I grab my lunch from the fridge and prepare for a well-deserved respite. Greg wanders in a few minutes later, clearly startled to see me complacently munching on an egg-salad sandwich.

"Sara! You close the trick-roll already?"

"Yeah. Our wanna-be Bonnie and Clyde landed themselves starring roles on candid camera." Greg just nods in acknowledgement. "How're you enjoying your return to your old haunts?"

"Mystery solved. Ms Sue Tarens of Days was the guilty culprit. As Papa Olaf would say: 'Hun nyst,'" accompanying the foreign phrase with the mimicry of a sneeze.

"Gesundheit."

"Precisely. When our Sniffling Sue sneezed, she expectorated microscopic globules of DNA-laden mucus, some of which infiltrated the improperly-latched mass spec, which contaminated the samples. And that, as they say, is that."

"You still decontaminating the lab?"

"Wendy's running standards through all of the equipment right now, to verify the calibrations, but I'm prepared to declare Operation Lysol a resounding success. And, in celebration, I was going to brew up some Blue Diamond Kona. Care to join me in a congratulatory toast?"

Opening my mouth to respond, Grissom enters the breakroom, interrupting my affirmation with, "The festivities will have to wait, Greg. I need you and Sara with me. Homicide just called in a 419, out in Henderson."

I morosely eye my half-eaten sandwich, before heaving a reluctant sigh and wadding it up, resignedly tossing the remainder into the garbage can.

Grissom continues to supply details of the case: "A relatively new gated community, Pendleton Heights. Husband found in his—"

The digitized ring of a cellphone interrupts his disclosure. He glares distastefully at the offending device, before answering with a curt, "Grissom." Listening for a few moments, a grimace of disgust creases his forehead and, with a gruff, "No… No, I'm on my way," he slides the phone closed with a frustrated sigh.

"Paperwork snafu," he offers as explanation. "Apparently, HR has some issues with my overtime authorizations from last month." This said with a half-chiding, half-amused glance at me. Chastisement for my well-documented, over-zealous work habits. Chastisement I dearly wish to avoid, as echoes of a conversation involving diversions and rollercoasters and rabbits circulates through my brain. I become fascinated with analyzing the thread-count of the breakroom carpet fibers.

"So, I'll meet you at the scene, once I assure the gentle-folk of Human Resources that I'm not coercing certain individuals into violations of OSHA standards by threatening them with _Latrodectus hesperus_ specimens." And I'm surprised to detect humor, not accusation, in his tone.

Not wishing to disrupt Grissom's unanticipated levity, I hastily pluck the keys from his proffered palm.

"Nah," I say. "Black widows aren't your style. You're more likely to go with a well-placed _Eleodes armata_." And, tossing a restrained but cheeky grin over my shoulder, I head toward the parking lot, with Greg at my heels.

"A well-placed what-whatta?" Greg asks confusedly.

"_Eleodes armata_. The desert stink beetle," I clarify.

"Ah," he nods knowingly. "Say, when'd you learn to speak bug?"

* * *

A/N: So, this chapter was mostly about setting the scene and timeline for the upcoming casefile. And to give me some practice in writing the other characters (which I was hopefully successful in doing so realistically). Reviews are always appreciated! 


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Cue the angst. And the casefile.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Easing into the driver's seat of the over-sized GMC, I feel a return of last evening's hyper-sensitivity to touch. The heavy weight of the keys in my hand, their metal teeth lightly biting my skin. The suede leather of the seat against the exposed skin of my back, where my shirt pulled up slightly. The cool grip of the steering wheel against the palm of my hand. I wonder at this newfound acuity to touch. And I wonder why a preternatural foreboding is sending a chill down my spine. I can sense the demons, amassing on the margins of my consciousness.

Seeking distraction, and to appease him his perpetual passenger-seat status, I relinquish control of the radio to Greg. A few moments of fiddling and tweaking later, and any possibility of drowning in self-introspection is eclipsed by the raucous strains of _Tenacious D_.

A happily-resolved trick-roll. Grissom acting almost… _playful_? Maybe my dire forebodings were unfounded. And, humming along, I tell Greg to crank it up, as we head to our homicide in Henderson.

* * *

'Pendleton Heights,' the sign advertises in a flamboyant cursive script. I pull the GMC up to the gated entrance, where a bored-looking patrol cop waves us through. 

"Stepford, here we come," Greg muses good-naturedly.

We approach the crime scene, through streets of recycled middle-class America, with well-tended lawns and pristine sidewalks, whitewashed façades trimmed with lacy curtains. The nauseatingly picturesque landscape is glaringly disrupted by the strobing red and blue flashes of the police cruisers. The neighbors have begun to trickle from their master bedrooms, cinching the belts of their bathrobes tautly around their waists as they wander deliberately toward the chaos.

"Nothing like a nice neighborhood homicide to bring everyone together," Brass grumbles, as you and Greg arrive on the scene.

Allowing my gaze to pass over the ever-expanding crowd, I wonder what morbid aspect of human nature it is that invariably attracts people to tragedy and intrigue, to death and disaster. _Like moths to a flame._

"Just you and the rookie tonight?" Brass queries, as Greg momentarily disappears behind the GMC, retrieving his field kit from the back.

"Greg hardly qualifies as a 'rookie' anymore," I dryly comment. "It _has_ been more than a year since he passed his proficiency. And no," in response to Brass' question, "Grissom'll be joining us. Got held up at the lab."

"Ah, excellent. A ménage a trois of the geek-squad."

I simply glower menacingly at Brass, in lieu of a verbal rebuttal.

"Right… well…" he mumblingly retreats. "Welcome to the Hudson family home," indicating the two-story structure behind us with a one-handed gesture. Reciting from his ever-present notepad, he lists the residents:

"The dearly-departed Dad, Dennis. Mother, Theresa…" Here Brass leaves a pregnant pause, obviously waiting for me to comment on his witty word-play. I merely elevate one eyebrow and maintain an arch look. Chuffing slightly, he concludes,"…and daughter, Amanda."

Continuing to relate the details of the scene: "Hubby's body is upstairs in the master bedroom. Mommy Dearest is the hysterical one over there," gesturing at a frantically-sobbing woman. "And the kid's in the back of the bus," pointing to the ambulance parked in the driveway. The vehicle's door precludes my view of the girl in question, but I detect two bare feet, dangling listlessly above the pavement.

"Injured?" I ask.

"Cut on her left palm. Possibly from the murder weapon."

I silently absorb this information. A knife. A stabbing. My dark foreboding resurfaces in a flood of memories.

Unaware of the direction of my thoughts, Brass blithely continues, "Apparently Chatty Cathy over there," nodding his chin at an elderly gentleman currently playing orator to a growing crowd, "possesses an encyclopedic database on the entire community. And all their activities. Of both the curricular and _extra_-curricular persuasions." This last said with a knowing smirk.

Brass ambles off to avail himself of the resident guru's knowledge, and I assign Greg to the perimeter, directing him to surreptitiously grab some shots of the voyeuristic crowd as well – in a gated community such as this one, any upstanding citizen with access automatically earns a slot on my list of suspects.

Walking along the flagstone path, I begin my approach to the house, noting the droplets of water clinging to the closely-cropped grass of the lawn, as well as the slowly-evaporating moisture on the stones.

'Ask wife re: sprinkler,' I jot in my preliminary notes.

Nearing the porch steps, I look over toward the ambulance, catching a glimpse of the young daughter. Swathed in a blanket. Motionless. Eyes transfixed by unseen images.

The eyes are said to be the windows to the soul. Looking into her eyes, I hope that isn't true. Because I see nothing, in her eyes. Two emotionless pools. Dead.

And in her sightless gaze, I know. I know that this house, this cookie-cutter emblem of suburbia, with its prim flower garden and stereotypical porch swing, underneath its whitewashed exterior with green trim – I know that this structure houses unspeakable horrors. Horrors that are mirrored in the hollow eyes of the little girl before me. I watch her clutch the blanket to herself even tighter, pulling it around her shoulders like a protective cloak. And I wonder what form her shield takes. Growing up, I wore a mantle of invisibility, reasoning with a child's intellect that, if I couldn't be seen, I couldn't be hurt. However, watching her, I notice that it isn't sight that she shirks from. It's touch.

She has built walls, carefully constructed, brick by brick, to fend off the evils of the world, to shield herself from life. But to me, the bricks are made of glass, the walls have a transparency that only comes through common experience. Through shared pain.

Reluctantly retracting my gaze from the infinite depths of her eyes, I refocus my attention on the crime scene. Crossing the threshold of the house, I pass into the kitchen, a tribute to Martha Stewart with its unnatural cleanliness, its artificial orderliness, its manufactured perfection. Half-detecting the lingering scent of peach cobbler and freshly-baked bread in the air. Half-imagining the room cheerily lit by soft overhead lighting. Except that the room is dark, lit only by the disco-like flashing from the emergency vehicles, trickling through the lace curtains, and the air is saturated not with the smell of homemade delicacies but by the astringent odor of copper. And with that scent, I am transported backwards, two decades erased in an instant.

My childhood home was never filled with those aromas of normalcy. Stale beer and cigarettes permeated my youth. Scents inextricably linked to raised voices and the unmistakable slap of skin on skin.

I carried my invisibility like a cloak; I sought to hide myself by adopting the disguise of normality. Not that I was conscious of any definable differentiation between myself and my peers. It was just… easier. Easier, when my teachers didn't notice me, didn't praise me for always producing the correct answer, for acing every exam. Easier, when my classmates didn't invariably turn to me, every time the tough questions were asked. Easier, when the bruises were shrouded under a layer of clothing. But, eventually, the mantle became too heavy, too burdensome. And hiding in plain view became impossible, after my father died. After my mother…

I retreat hastily from the path my thoughts are pursuing, not prepared to confront those demons. Not now. Not in this house.

Continuing my walk-thru of the downstairs, I don't observe any visible signs of disturbance. Framed studio portraits of the trio decorate the walls. Freshly-cut flowers, arranged with delicate precision, serve as the centerpiece on the dining room table. No toys litter the family room floor. No books clutter the coffeetable. Everything has its place. Its order. Its purpose.

But I inherently sense that the order, the cleanliness, merely serves as a mask, a veneer to disguise the underlying tragedy and horrors that permeate the walls. I'm reminded, vividly, of my childhood home, of its dichotomy – the warm and welcoming front of the bed and breakfast, shielding the terrible truth from public view.

I feel like a human yo-yo, oscillating between the present and the past on the whim of some unseen hand, dangling in my childhood before being yanked back to reality by the flick of a wrist. I'm ascending the carpeted staircase of the Hudson house, detachedly noting and photographing the miniature footprints delineated in blood – child-size 12, I mentally estimate. And then, suddenly, I find myself on the creaky wooden steps of my childhood home, the same coppery smell leaden in the air.

Reaching the second floor, I track the crimson footsteps, toe-to-heel, the trail disappearing behind the semi-closed door of the first room. I temporarily bypass this door, knowing that behind it lies the master bedroom.

Not yet ready to face the present.

Not yet ready to face the past.

A few feet from the doorway, a nightlight lies, unplugged, nestled in the plush carpeting, underneath an electrical outlet. The first object out of place, out of order, in the entire house. Snapping several photographs, I slide the miniature lamp into an evidence bag, sealing it closed.

I then proceed down the narrow carpeted hallway, checking doors as I go. Bathroom. Linen closet. I stop outside a door, with "TYLER" spelled out crookedly in wooden block letters, the 'R' dangling precariously askew. Funny, Brass hadn't mentioned a son. And none of the photographs included a brother to Amanda. Opening the door, I am met with stale air and I know, intrinsically, that this room has been uninhabited for quite some time.

The last door bears "Mandy's Domicile" in multicolored stenciling, along with a spelling test decorated with a flashy sticker and '105' in red marker, the extra points evidently for her correct spelling of 'onomatopoeia.' Entering the room, I'm immediately assaulted by an over-abundance of Harry Potter paraphernalia. But there's an underlying familiarity as well, a sense of sanctuary, of a carefully constructed haven.

I retreat from the room, not wanting to intrude on her privacy, closing the door gently behind me, and return to stand before the master bedroom. The door is slightly ajar, a crimson smear marring the otherwise pristine surface – a child-sized handprint, fingerpainted in blood. I use the lens of the camera to distance myself, to provide an emotional shield, a psychological barrier between me and the evidence. I take several swabs of the blood, and then hesitantly nudge the door open.

Standing in the doorway, my olfactory senses trigger synaptic bursts in my brain, dredging memories from the dungeons of my mind. Time has become confused, past and present overlaid, overlapping in an impossible juxtaposition, an unbalanceable equation. I'm both 13 and 35. The gangly, knock-kneed adolescent exists once again, in startling clarity, within the guise of a woman in her prime. My gaze fastens on the bedroom wall, decorated in scarlet. My eyes trace the cast-off patterns, and somehow it is both my father's blood and this unknown victim's, creating a hieroglyphic transcript of the evening's events.

My eyes are then drawn, inexorably, against my will and that of my teenage ghost, toward the body splayed across the canopied bed. Horror steals the breath from my lungs, and bile sears my esophagus, as my adolescent brain shriekingly exhorts me to turn my head, to avert my eyes. But some terrible compulsion forces my gaze unwaveringly onward.

I focus first on the foot suspended over the edge of the mattress. I then follow the linear progression of skin and muscle, past the patella to the boxer-clad thigh. The first stains of crimson are visible when my eyes reach the hem of the white cotton t-shirt. My gaze skims across the garnet-spattered expanse of the torso, only to skid to a halt at the base of the neck.

Fear.

Terror.

Flight.

All battle within me. Twenty-two years of suppressed memories and emotions create a whirlwind tempest, seeking escape. My breath is frozen in my lungs, my muscles staunchly refusing to acknowledge the adamant commands of my brain.

I'm 13-years old again, staring into my parents' bedroom.

As my eyes prepare to finish their northward trek, I _know_, intrinsically, indisputably, illogically, that the face, currently half-shrouded in shadow, will be my father's, And, equally as certainly, I know that I am not prepared to face that demon. Not now. But a magnetic force draws my eyes on.

And, just as my gaze crests the out-thrust chin, just as my mental barriers are to be flooded – a solid, reassuringly familiar touch penetrates the maelstrom of memory and emotion threatening to engulf me, pulling me back from the cliff's edge. The frozen mass lodged in my lungs thaws, and oxygen once again flows through my veins. The warm weight of his hand against my lower back, and the demon has been caged once more.

"Grissom," the sigh involuntarily escapes my lips.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note: Enter Grissom, stage right.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"Grissom," escapes my lips in a thankful sigh, as the looming demons scatter at his touch.

Turning to face him, I offer a terse nod in greeting but shy from his gaze, fearing above all else to find pity there.

"Sara…" comes his soft, gentle exhortation, and I immediately begin a verbal monologue to deflect his unspoken question.

"Greg's running the perimeter, along with snapping some candid shots of the voyeuristic crowd. Figure since it's a gated community, there's a good chance that our suspect's a local resident… Any outsiders in their midst, and the civilian patrol in this neighborhood would have them tarred and feathered… Brass said there's a self-ordained gatekeeper to our Stepford family… I'm sure we'll have him in for questioning at some point… Probably fulfill his fantasy, elevate his standing…"

I realize that I've regressed well beyond the point of 'over-talking' and into the realm of 'mindless chatter,' but at this moment, my babbling is a benediction. I can't handle silence right now. It would deafen me. Words are my armor – as I release them into the air, they weave themselves together, forming a shield, a barrier, between me and my demons.

"Sara…" the echo of his earlier request. I can feel his eyes, sweeping across my face, seeking to capture mine, which dart frantically like a cornered animal, seeking something, _any_thing to fasten on.

But everything is stained in crimson.

Or shrouded in darkness.

"Sara…" he reiterates once more, in that half-pleading, half-frustrated tone of his.

Eventually, hesitantly, I bring my gaze up to his face, not able to meet his eyes, compromising instead by settling on his zygomatic arch, that square-inch of exposed skin centered between the steely gray of his bearded cheek and the cerulean pools of his irises.

But my eyes are traitorous to the directives of my brain, and they continue their ingrained habits, inexorably shifting to capture his.

Unwavering. Steady. Pools of blue, brimming not with pity, but with unadulterated concern and understanding. And… another emotion, swimming deeper in his infinite depths.

Now, over the years, I've become quite adept at reading Grissom's eyes, deciphering their oceanic depths. The waves. The tides. The swells. The eddies. I've learned to identify them all.

Okay. Maybe not 'all.' But, a _lot_ of them.

Well, _some_, at least.

There are certain emotions that I'm _quite_ familiar with. Personally.

'Exasperation.' And 'annoyance.' Both are directed my way frequently.

'Confusion and bewilderment.' _That_ duet usually makes an appearance following one of my episodes of verbal diarrhea.

There's 'smirky amusement.' The infrequent 'pride.' 'Concern.' (But not 'worry.' No, never 'worry.')

'Compassion' is a rare gift, like glimpsing an exotic butterfly, only seen in unexpected and unguarded moments.

But _this_…_ This_ emotion, this tidal wave currently sweeping across the ocean of his gaze – this is a new species. It reaches through my eyes, down my spine, into my soul. Molten lava, coursing through my veins. My stomach performing acrobatics worthy of an Olympic gold.

I attempt to visually trace it back to its source, diving recklessly into his bottomless cerulean depths. But, before I can grasp its elusive identity, Grissom blinks. And, when his eyelids rise, any betraying emotion is carefully buried once more.

And I'm left wondering if it existed only in my imagination.

But the stampeding butterflies in my abdomen tell me otherwise. As does my percussive heartrate, sounding thunderously in my ears.

Although, the ghost of my father, lying not ten feet from me – ten feet and two decades – may be contributing to my erratic pulse as well. And all thoughts of emotions and oceans are engulfed by the looming blackness.

Grissom says nothing for several moments, just stands beside me, his hand still resting, protectively, against the curve of my lower spine. And that touch, that contact, provides me the strength to wrestle my demons back into their cages. The locks are weakened, the steel gates battered and dented, but they're restrained once again. The stitches binding my hidden wounds have pulled loose, but they will hold.

For now.

Eventually, his hand applies a gentle pressure to my back, and with the upward tilt of one eyebrow, his eyes mutely inquire, _Are you ready?_

Closing my eyes and inhaling deeply through my mouth, then expelling the breath in a forceful burst, I nod my head with a single, taut jerk. _Let's do it_.

By unspoken accord, we begin with the periphery of the room, Grissom tacitly granting me the time to prepare for the body. When I finally view Dennis Hudson's face, I'll be confronting a chapter of my past that I thought eternally buried; I'll be traversing corridors of my soul that have lain dormant and accrued dust for two decades.

And, somehow, Grissom knows that.

At this thought, I suppress a nervous, ironic chuckle – Grissom has the emotional subtlety of a brick through a glass window. And the emotional savvy of a brick. And yet… And yet he understands me, on levels that _I_ can't even comprehend.

We work in tandem, unconsciously and effortlessly assuming our choreographed dance, working without words; the graceful fluidity of our exchange, more than just a familiarity with each other's styles and methods, making verbal communication obsolete.

And, somehow, with Grissom present, the silence isn't so threatening.

I kneel by the first of the child-sized footprints, on the threshold of the bedroom, wordlessly holding the camera over my shoulder, for Grissom to take, accepting the scaled ruler in exchange. The dance continues, across the hardwood floor, tracking Mandy Hudson's path in reverse, in crawling increments, to the base of the bed. And the slowly congealing bloodpool.

A slow drip from the slightly-curled outstretched hand transfixes me, holding me captive. A scarlet drop dangles suspended, quivering, from a pale knuckle. Losing the battle with gravity, it falls, merging fluidly into the underlying crimson pool with a muted 'plop.' At this sound, my brain absurdly summons an image of the word 'onomatopoeia,' written in a childish script; the spelling test, decorating Mandy's door.

And then, crimson bleeds outward, until my entire field of view is tinted red.

Unable to move.

Unable to think.

Just staring at the scarlet expanse, ripples distorting its surface in measured intervals, as the drops continue to fall.

Hypnotized.

Until a cotton-tipped swab appears in my peripheral vision, breaking the trance, and I dutifully collect a sample from the shallow bloodpool.

Still on my knees, I work around the perimeter of the bed. Underneath the dangling foot of Dennis Hudson, I pause when the beam of my flashlight glints in reflection. Reaching into my vest, I extract the long-stemmed tweezers. Gingerly clasping the small metal fragment, I turn my head to request a bindle from Grissom. But he's anticipated me, bindle already resting in his outspread palm. I flash him a tight grin in thanks, before depositing the object into the envelope.

We're processing in the dark, and I muse idly that, since coming to Vegas, darkness has become my _de facto_ color. Everything is tinged in shades of dark. Shadows of dark.

Kneeling beside the bed, in a supplicating position that would be amusing to me under different circumstances but is now only morbidly ironic, I finally allow my eyes to complete their journey, to rest upon the face of the victim.

For one, brief, heart-stopping moment, my father's face is juxtaposed, his expression frozen in the combination of anger, anguish, and astonishment that is permanently affixed in the alleyways of my memory, my psyche, my soul.

I release an unconscious gasp and shudder involuntarily, unaware of my actions until I sense Grissom's presence behind me. Not touching, his hand hovering just a hair's breadth from my shoulder. But the warmth radiating from his body spans the empty space between us effortlessly, seamlessly flowing from him to me, coursing into the dark recesses of my mind, dispelling a portion of the chill that has plagued me since waking.

* * *

A/N: I really hope that this chapter seems believable and in-character, because I did a lot of adding and subtracting before arriving at this version of it. Reviews and comments would be really appreciated! 


	6. Chapter 6

Author's note: More of Grissom and Sara's wordless dance. Plus an appearance by David, for good measure.

* * *

**Chapter 6**

With Grissom as the stalwart sentinel between me and the demons of my past, the overwhelming flood of darkness is stalled at a distance. I'm still unequivocally conscious of it, looming, lurking, mustering shadows under its amoebic umbrella; but a barrier now prevents the blackness from reaching my soul.

Still detecting the warmth his body imbued mine. Still feeling the ghost of his hand against my lower back.

I think the imprint of his palm has been branded onto the base of my spine.

With the reassuringly solid presence of Grissom grounding me in the present, my rapidly vacillating equilibrium is stabilized. I allow myself a lengthy examination of the victim, to minutely absorb every facet of his expression. The transient juxtaposition of my father's face has passed, and I study the visage of Dennis Hudson, observe every crease and wrinkle etched into the landscape of his countenance by the stylus of time.

The day's growth of stubble, tinging his jaw.

Mouth slightly open, as if his final words were stolen from his lips half-spoken.

And his eyes…

The eyes…

Not having yet acquired the opaque film of death, they remain frozen in an expression of fear and anger. And incomprehension. An expression universal to all victims of violent death. An expression I have witnessed, all too many times in my life.

Gradually, I physically tear my gaze from his face, my eyes reversing their earlier exploration, to travel linearly down the body, coming to rest on the knife, vertically protruding from the crimson-stained torso. Like a flagpole, with an absent flag.

Suddenly, I'm an awkward teenager again, peering tentatively into my parents' bedroom, and the inherent _wrong_ness of the scene vehemently assails me, with the force of a physical blow. My father's body, a knife erupting from his chest like a calcified stalagmite. An overwhelming compulsion to rectify the scene, to right the wrong, assaults me, and the muscles of my hand involuntarily twitch in automatic response.

But, while my right hand unconsciously reaches toward the knife of the present, my left reflexively grasps at the knife of my past, clutching at the fabric of my shirt, to remove the phantom blade buried in my chest, in my soul.

And then, a softly spoken, "Sara," penetrates the mirage, rescuing me from the eddying swirls of memory, reaching across time and pulling me through the two decades I lost, restoring me to the present.

Wondering how long my reverie lasted, I become conscious of the pale hues of incipient dawn imbuing the room. The indistinguishable murmur of a myriad of conversations, trickling up from the street.

A small, detached corner of my mind amusedly observes that, since arriving, Grissom and I have exchanged exactly one handful of words – excepting my babbling monologue – the entirety of which consisted of our names. Mostly mine, uttered in varying tones of exasperation and concern. Like our silent fluid dance while processing a scene, we somehow seem to communicate loudest when words are omitted.

I start, guiltily, at the reiteration of my name, fearing that Grissom somehow tracked the progression of my thoughts, through the shadowed corridors of my memory; that he recognized my aborted movement toward the knife; half-expecting to find him observing me, contemplating me like some fragile specimen about to shatter at the slightest whisper of a touch.

I begin to turn my head toward him, to deny that I was on the verge of compromising evidence. _Key_ evidence. The _murder_ weapon.

But, before my eyes even span the blood-spattered mattress in their journey to meet Grissom's, my gaze is arrested by the insistent beam of his flashlight. An extension of his hand. Pointing.

Leaning in slightly, I detect a hair… no… _three_ hairs. Sinuously coiled on one of the pillows.

Once again extracting the long-stemmed tweezers with my right hand, I raise my left to my shoulder, to accept the bindle I implicitly know that Grissom is extending. My fingers instinctively curl around the stiff manila, and, as I deposit the strands individually into the envelope, I observe, "No visible follicles. Probably won't be able to recover any DNA."

And I wince, inwardly, at the hoarseness I detect in my voice. As if I'd been yelling unrelentingly for the past hour, although in actuality, my vocal chords were virtually unused for that span. I clear my throat self-consciously, but Grissom makes no comment.

Using my flashlight as a spotlight, I perform a thorough examination of the bedsheets, but find no other trace evidence. Preparing to rock myself to my feet, I find Grissom's hand suddenly cradling my elbow, levering me to a standing position.

Nerve-endings flaring, seared with an impossible heat.

_Skin on skin_, my brain automatically records, filing the contact into a sheltered corner of my mind, to be fully analyzed later.

Turning cautiously, I shyly lift my eyes to capture his gaze, to murmur my thanks, but cool professionalism blankets his visage, his attention already returned to the scene.

_Right_, I inwardly sigh. _And so the eternal give-and-take continues._

But the usual bitterness that accompanies this thought is noticeably absent. Because I don't get the sense that Grissom is deliberately retreating from me this time. This isn't his typical 'shuffling half-step forward, one to the side, and two full-length strides backwards' maneuver; it isn't our awkward, bumbling dance that invariably brings Tom Lehrer's _Masochism Tango_ to mind.

Rather, it feels as though he is granting me space. Space to confront my past. Space to absorb everything. Space that I need, although _I_ wasn't aware that I did.

And I wonder again at his insight into my soul.

* * *

We continue our silent examination of the bedroom, flashlights circling in ever-expanding arcs, like lighthouse beacons illuminating the seas. Grissom, still in possession of the camera, begins documenting the blood-spatter decorating the walls. The criss-crossing cast-off patterns resemble a macabre abstract canvas. And I'm grateful that Grissom is the one processing them – the scene is too reminiscent, too raw, too much a part of my past for me to objectively detail the present. 

Leaving Grissom to the crimson hieroglyphics, I continue my methodical perusal of the room. My flashlight beam reflects back at me from the darkened plain of a television set, situated on the bureau. Wandering over, I note several DVD cases, scattered across the wood surface – a Harry Potter film, _Shrek_, another Harry Potter…

"Ya know," I say, turning to Grissom, fanning the plastic cases out for his examination before sealing them in an evidence bag, "The daughter's obsessed with Harry Potter. She must watch them in here."

"Why here, in her parents' bed? Why not downstairs in the family room?" Grissom speculates.

I shrug in response, not wanting to vocalize the morbid conclusion that my brain inductively reaches – the long brown hairs on the pillow, the haunted look in Mandy's eyes, haunting my consciousness.

David stumbles into the room at that moment, tripping over his words in his haste to apologize, "Dr. Grissom… Sorry… late. Accident… the Strip. Multiple fatalities. I got conscripted into involuntary service. I tried to radio dispatch to let you know I'd be detained, but—"

"David," Grissom cuts him off, hands aloft in a placating gesture, exasperation lacing his words, "It's alright. Just… process, now that you're here."

"Yes, sir. Of course," he mumbles apologetically.

I flash him a sympathetic grin, and he offers me his customary bashful smile in greeting.

Extracting his thermometer, David impales the liver, before initiating his visual examination. "Rigor is just beginning to set." Rolling the body slightly and delicately raising the crimson-spattered t-shirt, he notes, "Lividity is fixed. The body doesn't appear to have been moved."

He reaches to grasp the protruding weapon, but I interrupt his motion:

"David, wait. The daughter may have cut herself on the knife. We should print and swab it before removal."

And, following a silent nod of acquiescence from Grissom, I suit actions to my words, disappointed to only recover one smudged partial. Likely from Mandy, based on its size.

Processing complete, I vaguely wave for David to proceed. He gingerly tugs on the weapon, to no effect. Darting a furtive, slightly shame-faced glance at Grissom through half-lidded eyes, he inhales a deep breath, readjusts his grip, and pulls more forcefully. Again, to no effect.

"It appears," he apologetically pronounces, "that the knife is lodged in the victim's ribcage. I don't think I can—"

"We'll transfer the body as-is," Grissom firmly declares. "The weapon can be removed at autopsy."

I repress a shudder at the thought of the knife, erupting indefinitely from the victim's torso, feeling the icy steel of its ghostly twin impaling my own chest, but refrain from commenting on my unease. Instead, I observe, "That's probably why the attacker left the murder weapon behind; he was unable to remove it."

David concludes his field observations, saying, "Based on the ambient air and liver temps," referring to the recently-extracted thermometer, "The tentative time-of-death is 5 hours ago, with a one-hour window on either side."

"So," consulting his wristwatch, Grissom calculates, "Mr. Hudson was killed between 12:30 and 2:30 this morning."

"The question is," I say, lifting my eyebrows in inquiry, "Where was _Mrs_. Hudson?"

* * *

As the coroner techs arrive to remove the body, Grissom and I descend the stairs, moving to the front porch. I take several deep, cleansing breaths, to flush the cloying scent of copper from my body, to flush the dark memories from my mind. To banish the specters of my past, chasing me through the corridors of my present. 

And I find that Grissom's hand has come to rest once again at the base of my spine.

* * *

A/N: Thanks to those who have reviewed! Comments always welcome! 


	7. Chapter 7

Author's note: For some reason, I had a lot of difficulty with this chapter. Which is strange, because the angst-factor is low; it's mainly just procedural crime scene stuff. But, I guess there's no accounting for writer's block.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Standing on the porch of the Hudson's home with Grissom mutely beside me, I gaze out absentmindedly across the perfectly manicured lawn, idly noting that the crowd of morbidly curious onlookers has not diminished significantly.

A few silent minutes tick by before Grissom asks, staring at me with that penetrating intensity of his, "What are you thinking?"

Prevaricating, I reply, "Well, the attacker obviously was familiar with the house. He knew where he was going. Unplugging the nightlight. Not waking the daughter. I'm curious about the wife though, how _she_ wasn't wakened—"

Appearing from the rear of the house, Greg bounds onto the porch, and into the conversation: "This family's a white picket fence and a cocker spaniel shy of a Norman Rockwell painting."

"Well, it seems that Scooby Doo and his fence weren't the only things missing from the Hudson family portrait," Brass sardonically retorts, following Greg at a more sedate pace. "Apparently, fidelity was omitted from their wedding vows."

"His or hers?" comes Grissom's immediate query.

"Both. Evidently, they were equal opportunity adulterers," quips Brass. "Hubby fished from the company pier, while the missus frequented the community pool."

"Was she 'swimming' last night?" Grissom sharply asks.

"Yep," Brass tersely replies. "Two blocks over and one house down. A Mr. Michael Reston."

"Well," I dryly observe, "That explains how she 'slept' through her husband's murder."

Switching topics with his usual ambiguous continuity, Grissom inquires, "Greg, did you find anything on the perimeter?"

Greg circuitously responds, "They're the leading cause of cancer in the United States, highly addictive, and the 'cool kids' take 'em out to the bleachers during recess."

Apparently, Greg's time spent in the DNA lab this evening resurrected his old habit of speaking in riddles.

"Cigarettes?" I compute from his clues.

"A half-smoked butt, in the bushes out back," Greg grins pleasedly. "Also pulled a partial off of the sliding glass-door."

"Well, considering that this house looks as if _Good Housekeeping_ is expected at any moment," Brass comments, "There's a good chance that a smudged window wouldn't survive ten minutes, let alone ten hours, under Suzie Homemaker's watchful eye."

We all silently acknowledge our potentially good fortune of a DNA-fingerprint evidence combo, before Grissom asks, "Anything else to report, Greg?"

"No visible signs of forced entry, to either the front or back doors, or to the garage. Two vehicles parked inside, both engines cool when we arrived on the scene."

"With only a two-block commute to her romantic rendezvous, it's no surprise that she would walk," I observe. "More discrete."

"Especially with Nebby Neighbor Ned's hawk-like eyes tracking the entire community's every move," Brass says. "Our 'Chatty Cathy,'" he clarifies, at the trio of confused expressions facing him. "'Mr. I-know-everything-about-everyone.' Ned Barnes. And," sounding somewhat astounded, "he really _does_."

"Is there a 'for instance' to be had?" Grissom impatiently inquires.

"For instance," Brass obliges, referring to his note-pad, "Mr. 2182 North Franklin Lane was audited by the IRS last year. And Ms. 1708 West Eddington Drive is one late payment away from having her car repossessed."

"That's fascinating, Jim," is Grissom's acerbic response. "Anything actually _relevant_ to the case?"

"Oh. You weren't interested in the financial disclosures of the entire Pendleton community? Sorry," Brass says, blatantly unrepentant. "Regarding our vic and his devoted wife – The madam had extra-curricular playdates every Monday and Thursday evening. The monsieur went out to play on Wednesdays and Saturdays."

"So, they had an established routine," I reflect. "Indicating that the attacker was familiar with their comings and goings."

A brief silence ensues before Grissom, consulting his watch, observes, "There's only an hour of shift left. And the two of you," glaring exasperatedly at Greg and me, "Are already tipping the scales of your overtime quotas. I re_fuse_ to be subjected to the banalities of another HR lecture on employee guidelines and timesheets. So, Greg, take the evidence back to the lab, start running the samples. And _clock out_ at 8 o'clock. No excuses. No exceptions."

Turning to me, Grissom continues, "Sara, process the daughter. If she got blood evidence on her—"

At this, Brass clears his throat self-consciously. "Actually…"

Upon Grissom's sharp glance, he contritely explains, "Patrol… took the mother and the daughter to Desert Palms, for sedation and stitches, respectively." Holding his hands out in a defensive gesture, he continues, "Don't worry. I left a uniform with each of them, with strict orders not to dispose of any potential evidence."

Grissom huffs at Brass in aggravation, before sliding his gaze to me. Smirking slightly in understanding, I say, "Right. I'm off to the hospital then."

Hefting my kit over to the parked GMCs, I transfer all of my sealed evidence bags into the rear of the vehicle. Tossing the keys over to Greg, I say, "Looks like you graduated to the driver's seat today, Greg. I'll grab a ride to the hospital from patrol."

Suddenly remembering the elaborate security gate at the entrance to Pendleton Heights, I call out, loudly enough for Grissom and Brass to hear, "Hey guys? With the gated-entry system to the community, we should be able to monitor any incoming and outgoing vehicles around the time-window for the murder." I speculate, "So, if the suspect _is_ an outsider…"

"I guess I'll be stopping by the guardhouse, on my way to the lab," Greg reluctantly accedes, with an exaggeratedly-aggrieved sigh.

"Excellent initiative, Greg," Grissom praises, without a trace of artifice. "Pick up the visitor logs. And check for any video cameras."

"Uh huh," Greg waves his hand in acknowledgement, as he trudges morosely to the GMC.

* * *

I flag down Jenkins, one of the patrol officers, and explain my need for a chauffeur to Desert Palms. Bending over to pick up my kit, my movement is aborted when a voice calls from behind me: 

"You're going to see Mandy?"

Turning, I see a slightly stocky man. Forty, maybe forty-three, I mentally gauge his age. Based on his rumpled appearance, I suspect that he grabbed the nearest available clothing this morning – well-worn jeans, his shirt buttoned but only half-tucked in and with the collar askew. And still wearing slippers.

I tilt an eyebrow in inquiry.

"Aaron Mitchell," he introduces himself. "We live next door," gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb. "Did you say you're going to the hospital, that you'll see Mandy?" he repeats his earlier question. "It's just – I have something of hers. She dropped it… earlier, in all the… chaos. And I know she'd really want to have it."

"What is it?"

"A wishing stone." At my confused expression, he clarifies, "It's supposed to bring good luck, when you rub it. She brought it back from Ireland last year, never goes _anywhere_ without it. So, could you just… make sure she gets it?" thrusting a small stone, dangling from a short strand of rawhide, toward me.

I automatically fish out an evidence envelope from my vest, indicating for him to deposit the object inside.

"I found her… this morning. Sittin', on the curb of their driveway, by the garage. Soaked to the skin, the poor little darling," shaking his head mournfully. "The lawn sprinklers are programmed to go off every morning, around 3:30," he says in explanation. "I get up at 4, and always grab the 'paper first thing. Which is when I found her. Sittin' there, shivering, cradling her hand, which she'd cut on something. I went in, saw the blood on the stairs, and woke up Theresa. And that's when she found Denny. She was totally incoherent, and that's when I called you guys."

Thanking Mr. Mitchell for his assistance, I record his contact information and assure him that Mandy will get her wishing stone, just as soon as possible.

On the verge of escape, I'm waylaid one again. This time, by Brass' Chatty Cathy. I momentarily debate pretending to ignore his frantic gesticulations, but, if he truly _is _as knowledgeable as Brass claims, then he may have valuable information to impart. Intermixed, of course, amongst a bundle of pompous displays of importance. I _really_ don't have the patience for Napoleonic posturing right now.

Releasing a long-suffering sigh, I apologize once more to Jenkins for postponing my taxi-ride to the hospital, and approach the elderly man.

"Ned Barnes," he introduces himself. And I instinctively sense that he _is_ the switchboard operator of the neighborhood rumor-mill, inputting and processing every byte of information, controlling the ebb and flow of scandal like a stockbroker, trading secrets and bartering rumors like currency, monitoring the export of gossip.

Glancing around surreptitiously, he begins, "An unspeakable tragedy. The Hudsons always were the perfect, all-American family. Fine upright folks. Untouched by hardship. 'Til young Tyler's unfortunate accident. Things never were right after that. Denny blamed Theresa, she blamed Mandy, and poor Mandy just tried to hang on. Oh, superficially, nothing changed. They still attended all of the neighborhood barbeques, still active in the PTA. But, the marriage never recovered from Ty's death." Dropping his voice to a whisper, he continues, "They… sought other recourse," with a wink and a nudge, "if you get what I mean."

Offering him only a tight-lipped smile, all I say is, "Tell me about Tyler."

The transformation is almost palpable, as Barnes switches roles from yenta to storyteller, openly pleased to assume the mantle of the latter. And, I observe with some trepidation, inordinately smug at the prospect of a captive audience.

"Such a tragic tale," he begins, shaking his head remorsefully in the universal gesture of commiseration. "Tyler… was their son, and had just celebrated his third birthday. The whole neighborhood attended his party…

"One week later, we attended his funeral."

I shift restlessly, subtly readjusting my weight. But evidently, Mr. Barnes views storytelling as an art, and will not be hurried.

"It was a year-and-a-half ago. One of those pristine autumn desert days – crisp, but not cold; the sky a canvas of pure azure; the sun a golden pendant dangling from the heavens."

And, unwittingly, I find myself nodding in comprehension, his words weaving an arachnid's web, ensnaring me in the past. Idly, I wonder how Brass broke free.

"It was mid-week, in the middle of the day. Back then, Theresa wasn't working; she stayed at home with Mandy and Ty.

"That day, Mandy was home from school – nothing serious, just a light cold. But, she'd been coughing for several days, so Theresa and Denny decided to let her stay home and rest."

At this point in his narration, Barnes glances at me, clearly seeking confirmation that I am engrossed in his tale. I nod obligingly. Apparently satisfied with this gesture, he continues, "It was such a trifling, little thing. It often is, I suppose…

"They had run out of cough medication. Theresa was going to run down to the store, to pick up a bottle. A five-minute errand. Out and back. She told Mandy to keep an eye on her brother – Mrs. Mitchell was home next door, and Pendleton is the safest community in the country."

Pausing here, the still-mingling patrol officers obviously recollecting the events of this morning, Barnes amends, "Well, it _was_…

"Anyway, she was only going to dash out, just for a minute. Ty was asleep, down for his mid-day nap; Mandy was curled on the couch, absorbed by cartoons on the television. It was supposed to be so simple. But everything went so horribly wrong."

My stomach twists uncomfortably in anticipation.

"Theresa got in her car, opened the garage door, backed up into the driveway.

"Ty was supposed to be asleep…

"But, somehow, he'd gotten outside. Playing with his brand-new tricycle, a birthday present. Theresa and Denny had emphasized to him that he was _never_ to ride in the street, only on the sidewalks and in their driveway. And, being a respectful and obedient child, he listened. That day, he was happily riding up and down, 'round and 'round in front of the Hudson's house.

"Ty was supposed to be asleep," Barnes repeats. "So, when Theresa backed the car out of the garage, she didn't even check the rearview mirror."

Silence.

"The sirens of the ambulance alerted me that something was wrong. That the peaceful tranquility of our little community was irreparably shattered.

"I found Theresa, in their driveway, with little Ty in her arms."

And, in my mind, I can see the broken body of the toddler, cradled in his mother's embrace. The battered tricycle, its crumpled and twisted frame forgotten. Abandoned. Rocking gently, back and forth.

"Mandy rushed out of the house, just then. Over to her mother. Reaching out to her brother. But Theresa roughly shoved her away. Not being deliberately cruel, just… in shock. It was a forceful push to Mandy's shoulder. She stumbled, fell. Skinned her knee.

"That was the last time I ever saw Theresa touch her daughter."

And this statement, more than any other, assaults my soul. Remembering my impression of earlier. Of Mandy, cloaking herself from the world. Shielding herself. Hiding. From touch.

I somehow manage to thank Mr. Barnes, for the information, before stumbling blindly to Jenkins' patrol car, tears burning my eyes, burning my soul. Traveling to the hospital, I am unable to escape the mental image of Mandy, clutching the blanket around her fragile frame. And the emptiness of her eyes.

* * *

A/N: So, I'm not overly happy with this chapter. Nothing specific, just some vague, indefinable dissatisfaction. I guess I just prefer writing the emotion and angsty-stuff to dialogue. But hopefully, it's still reasonably realistic and in-character, and still worth reading! Comments welcome! 


	8. Chapter 8

Author's note: First off – thanks to all for the reviews! Secondly, I'm going to be losing my internet access for several days, and I won't be able to post on my (semi)consistent schedule. However, I managed to get chapter 9 finished and polished to my satisfaction, and as these two chapters sort of flow together, I decided to offer a double-posting today. Hope you enjoy!

A/N 2: The angst returneth. Poor Sara.

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Navigating the labyrinthine network of whitewashed corridors reeking of antiseptic and bleach, I eventually stumble across Mandy Hudson's hospital room. The patrol cop, looking exceedingly bored, flipping idly through a copy of _Newsweek_ magazine from 2004, springs to his feet when he spies my gun and ID.

"Uh… Ma'am," he stutters nervously.

"Relax… Peters," I read off of his lapel tag. "Mandy Hudson in there?" I gesture to the closed door with a tilt of my head.

"Yep. Hasn't made a peep since we got here. Even when they stitched up her hand."

I silently absorb this information. "And the mother?"

"She was crazy-hysterical when we first arrived. Nurses sedated her, just to calm her down. She's down the hall, in 312."

I absently nod my thanks, peering through the narrow glass panel of the door. The first thing that strikes me, once again, is her eyes. A pair of vacuums. Twin black holes. Entire galaxies encompassed in their impossible depths. And pain. Unimaginable pain. It swirls in her bottomless pools.

From behind me, Peters adds, "Docs say she's in a catatonic state."

I physically swallow back the "No shit, Sherlock," that reflexively rises to my lips, instead merely nodding my understanding.

After softly rapping on the faux wood, I ease the door open. She's perched on the edge of the bed, feet dangling inanimatedly, giving no indication that she detected my entrance. I grab one of the plastic, orange, scoop-backed chairs, my jaw clenching involuntarily at the grating noise it produces when one of the legs catches on the linoleum floor. Again, she displays no response.

Looking at her, I see an echo of myself, twenty years earlier. A lifetime ago. A life ago.

Gazing into her tortured soul, I don't want to process her. I don't want to be a criminalist. All I want to do is to break her from the hypnotic spell of memory that holds her captive. To penetrate the maelstrom of nightmares occupying her consciousness.

I want to initiate a connection with her. A touch. I want to take her hand and physically draw her out of the blackness enveloping her. But her left palm lies limply exposed, a raw and red gash transecting its width. And her right hand is clenched in an impossibly tight fist.

Reaching into my vest, I remove the object that Mr. Mitchell had given me – a small stone, attached to a four-inch strand of rawhide. A 'wishing stone,' he had labeled it.

A brief internal debate ensues, a decade's-worth of forensic training battling the instinctual need to comfort.

Rationalizing – The polished surface was unsuitable for retaining prints, and I'd already swabbed it for trace.

Grissom's damn quotes aside, rationalizations can be beautiful things.

Decision made, I ease the smooth stone into Mandy's tightly-clenched fist. Her expression doesn't visibly change, but I imagine that the tension in her face eases imperceptibly, and her fist uncurls slightly, her thumb rubbing the stone with the unconscious familiarity of an habitual gesture.

As I process her, I explain every step of the procedure, leaving her right hand untouched except to scrape under her nails.

Fingerprints. Footprints. UV photos.

By the time I finish the SART exam, my lips are a tightly compressed line, penning in the anger burning my esophagus.

And her thumb never ceases its motion of caressing the stone.

* * *

Walking down the corridor to Room 312, I find Theresa Hudson half-dazed, recovering from the effects of the sedative she was administered. I guide her down the hallway, to stand before Mandy's door.

In a slight stupor from the medications, she rambles uninhibitedly, her speech lightly slurred:

"He blames me, for Tyler's death. I know he does. Oh, he never outright _says_ it. But I can tell, the way he looks at me. _Looked_, damnit," she corrects herself. "He still loved me, I know he did. Just like I still love Mandy. Dearly. I just… when I get close to her, I see Ty. Her eyes are Ty's. And they accuse me…"

I interrupt her self-condemning monologue: "Well, right now, regardless of whatever unresolved guilt-issues you have, your daughter needs you. She needs contact from someone she loves, someone she trusts."

I watch her, standing at the door of her daughter's hospital room.

I watch her hand, resting on the door handle.

I watch her stare through the narrow panel of glass.

I watch her inhale deeply, bow her head, close her eyes.

I watch her hand fall from the handle, fingertips lingering fleetingly on the metal, before curling into a reluctant fist.

I watch the line of her back as she walks down the hospital corridor.

I watch, and I feel my heart weep silent tears of blood for the abandoned girl on the other side of the door. For the abandoned girl of 20 years ago.

I find myself in the stairwell, the tears threatening to spill from my heart into my eyes, as I crave the contact that Mandy was denied by her mother, the contact the girl from my past was denied. With my back against the wall, I slide down into a huddled crouch, my arms hugging my knees tightly against my chest.

I'm unaware of having moved, until I hear the telltale ringing of a phone in my ear and suddenly realize that I'd unconsciously taken my cellphone out and dialed.

The ringing stops as the line is answered and, upon hearing his distracted, "Grissom," my anguish threatens to engulf me.

An irritated "Hello?" follows. And, at his voice, something within me breaks, and I choke back a sob.

A pause, during which Grissom evidently checked his caller ID, because his next question is, "Sara?"

Concern bleeds through the soundwaves. "Sara, where are you?"

Drawing in a shuddering breath, I attempt to gather the tattered shreds of my façade about me, like a protective cloak. Seeking to deflect his apprehension by disguising my emotion, I strive to keep my voice a detached monotone:

"Just finished processing the daughter. The SART exam showed evidence of sexual trauma, but I doubt we'll get any viable DNA. And the UV camera exposed physical abuse, extensive bruising on her shoul—"

"Sara," he forcefully cuts me off. Apparently, Grissom wasn't fooled.

* * *

As I sit in the ambulance bay, waiting for Grissom, I stare at the empty horizon, with unseeing eyes. It is one of those rare overcast Vegas days.

_Why does the weather have to be so damned reflective of my mood_? I wonder. _Or is it_, I idly speculate, _my _mood_ that is influenced by the weather?_

Regardless, it's damned depressing.

I watch as condensation gathers in pendulous drops, dangling precariously from the overhanging roof. Eventually, the force of gravity exceeds the surface tension of water, and the droplets detach, succumbing to the laws of physics. My eyes trace the downward progression of each drop, from its original suspension, through the imperceptible acceleration of its descent, to its termination as it impacts the concrete pavement in a plump explosion. My gaze then returning, to watch the formation of the next tear. It's rhythmic. Measurable. Hypnotic.

But then, the clear liquid acquires a hue of crimson, and the water becomes blood. Falling not from a rooftop, but from a curled hand. Landing not on pavement but on a hardwood floor.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

The sound of my name penetrates the crimson-stained fog enveloping my consciousness, and I blink, to find Grissom squatting in front of me, the warmth of his hand on my knee dispelling the chill slightly. Diluting the darkness.

Gently tugging me to my feet, he softly says, "C'mon, honey. Let's get you home."


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note: See Chapter 8 (also posted 5.16.06).

A/N 2: Bring on the angst. And comforting Grissom. A long-ish chapter, but hopefully worth the read.

* * *

**Chapter 9**

_C'mon, honey. Let's get you home._

The words distantly register in some remote corner of my brain, but dimly and muffled, as if traveling through water. I allow Grissom to direct me like a stringed marionette. He opens the passenger door and guides me into the seat, with a gentle hand across my lower back. In an automatic, ingrained habit, I unconsciously attach the seatbelt across my waist, but all I can see are her haunted eyes. The invisible bruising, the hidden scars. The torment swimming buried in the depths of her gaze.

My mind flickers to another memory, of another girl, this one blond, but with the identical haunted look on her face. I dig deeper still, and suddenly I'm confronted with a memory of my_self_, bearing that same haunted look, my white-knuckled grasp on the hand of a faceless, nameless woman the only thing separating me from the suffocating darkness.

I think of all of the children's faces I've seen over the years, that have borne that look. So many. Too many.

That look of lost. Not of 'loss,' but of 'lost.' Lost hope. Lost happiness. Lost faith. Just lost.

Lost to the world.

Lost world.

My memory flickers through each and every one of the faces, flipping through them like snapshots in my mind, a whirring microfiche. Whirring faster and faster, the faces blurring together, but the eyes… the eyes never change.

Unblinking.

The expression they hold remains an invariable constant, across the spectrum of faces, the spectrum of time.

Whirring, whirring.

Rewinding through time at an accelerated pace.

When, suddenly, it stops. As if an unseen hand pressed 'pause,' had slapped an open-fisted palm against the tabletop, as if to say, "That's it. That's the one I was searching for."

The face in the photograph is mine.

* * *

I'm unaware of how much time has passed or where we are, when I curtly command Grissom to pull over. I fumble ineptly with my seatbelt, finally releasing the catch. It flails wildly as it retracts, the buckle bouncing solidly against my shoulder. I'm certain there will be a bruise tomorrow. I grapple blindly for the door handle, unable to coordinate the muscles of my hand with my eyes. As panic adds to my virulently roiling stomach, Grissom leans over and competently unlatches the door in a fluid motion. I stumble from the vehicle, landing on my knees in the packed dirt of the highway shoulder. The acidic bile burns my throat, and I wish that I could expunge the violent memories attacking my consciousness along with the contents of my stomach. Spatter them in the hard-packed Nevada soil.

* * *

I unlock the front door and walk unerringly through my heavily-shadowed apartment to the bathroom, my sole objective to wash away the invisible layer of tainted memories that coats my skin, more insidious than the suffocating stench of a decomp. However, there are no lemons to remove this film, for this defilement lies under my epidermis. 

It blankets my soul.

* * *

I patter out of the bathroom in sweats and a t-shirt, furiously toweling my hair before resignedly tossing the towel behind me to lie in a sodden heap. I pause when I detect a soft glow emanating from the living room. I don't remember much about my entrance into the apartment, in my all-consuming haste to reach the shower, but I certainly don't recall stopping to switch on a lamp. 

I cautiously duck my head through my bedroom doorway, and am astonished to see Grissom, perched rigidly on the edge of my sofa, apparently mesmerized by the contents of my coffeetable.

Laughing inwardly, I realize that I've unconsciously adopted my trademark pose – arms crossed, shoulder and hip resting against the doorframe. The coffeetable serves as a substitute for Grissom's desk, the obligatory physical barrier metaphorically symbolizing the emotional one.

_All that's missing, _I wryly think,_ Are the entomological displays_.

I offer a self-conscious cough, to alert him to my presence, before dryly commenting, "I never thought _Cosmo Teen_ would ever warrant such a concentrated perusal."

But, when my cough penetrates the silence, something different happens. Grissom springs to his feet, his gaze fastening relentlessly on mine. And it isn't the guarded, hesitant gaze of his office. It's… more open, concern clearly etched in the lucid pools of his eyes. Concern and… that _other_ emotion. From earlier this morning. The one that eluded my identification. So transiently visible, that I suspect that I am only glimpsing the silhouette of the sentiment, rather than the sentiment itself; that I only witness the evidence of its passage, not the passage itself.

Considering that even this ephemeral glimpse effects me with the force of a roundhouse kick to the solar plexus, I wonder if I would survive the emotion unadulterated, pure. Like an eclipse, only safe to view through a protective medium, secondhand. Staring at it directly would sear my corneas, blind me with its intensity.

But, as before, the elusive emotion streaks across his gaze with the permanence of a meteor, flaring before being instantaneously buried once again behind his fortified walls. Leaving me gazing into twin shimmering pools of concern.

Apparently, humor isn't going to get me out of this conversation. And, as I'm currently in _my_ apartment, and my car is occupying a space in the lab parking lot, escape isn't a viable option either.

Under the penetrating, discerning force of his gaze, my eyes falter, attempt to flee. Knowing that, if the visual contact remains unbroken, he'll peer into my hidden depths, my hidden dungeons, and see the demons lurking below.

"Sara…" he begins, softly, tentatively, asking, "How are you?"

"I'm okay, Grissom," comes my automatic response.

He merely blinks, implacably. Clearly unconvinced.

"I'll _be_ okay," I amend.

He continues to pierce my soul with his eyes. A mute, _What happened?_ floating on their stormy surfaces.

Haltingly, involuntarily, inexplicably relieved, I commence, "The scene… at the hospital… the little girl…" I flounder for words. "She's being forgotten, Grissom. Erased, right in front of our eyes. Disappearing, to a world, where touch doesn't exist; an existence devoid of contact. And her mother! Her mother just…" I shake my head, struggle for comprehension. "Hell, she's the one holding the eraser. She can barely even _look_ at her daughter, let alone _touch_ her. She just idly stands by, as her daughter fades away."

"Well," Grissom suggests, in an impossibly soft tone, "Grief afflicts us all in different ways."

"I just… don't understand, how people can be so… deliberately cruel… can have such capacity…" I trickle off.

Idly hoping that this emotional outburst will suffice to appease Grissom's baffling need to console.

But… no. He has resumed his perch on my couch. Stolid. Undeterred. Hell, he's growing a damn taproot into my couch, like some kind of invasive plant.

And those eyes. Those damn eyes. Lancing my soul. Unlocking the prison gates of my buried demons.

Struggling to gather the tattered shreds of my façade around me, my mantle of invisibility. To disguise my pain.

But, as I gather them together, Grissom's hands, his eyes, are there, relentlessly pulling them away, not allowing me my retreat into myself.

The feeling of being trapped, caged by my apartment walls, that tormented me yesterday afternoon, resurfaces. I feel awkward. Uncomfortable. Exposed.

And, conundrically – safe. I may be trapped, by my past, by my demons. But someone is trapped alongside me.

No, not 'someone.'

_Grissom._

The awkwardness returns, but with a different cause.

I feel the need to do something, to act, to move. Normally, following an emotionally-laden shift like this one, I'd grab a beer, put on an angst-ridden CD, and drown the pain and anguish in poetry.

But alcohol would only compound my torment today – sleep will not be a haven, as the nightmares lie in wait. And the smell of beer would only trigger memories, would summon demons already too close to the surface of my consciousness.

Words, distantly familiar, trickle through the strata of my mind, reordering, rearranging, into a recognizable pattern:

_A power is growing on me, an old tenacity.  
I am breaking apart like the world. There is this blackness,  
This ram of blackness. I fold my hands on a mountain.  
The air is thick. It is thick with this working.  
I am used. I am drummed into use.  
My eyes are squeezed by this blackness.  
I see nothing. _(#)

Yeah, poetry is definitely not a safe avenue either.

So, instead, I pace. Prowling my apartment. Seeking some weakness in the prison walls, penning me in the darkened corridors of my past.

Grissom's eyes silently tracking my movements.

I think of how, not 24 hours ago, I mentally replayed this very scene, the reopening of old scars, Grissom, sitting on my couch, excavating my past. Hell, I've _been_ reliving it, on an endless loop, since arriving at the Hudson crime scene. Since looking into Mandy's eyes.

_Can such innocence kill and kill? It milks my life. _(#)

But, I survived _that_ encounter with the demons of my past. Not 'unscathed.' No, I acquired a myriad of bruises and scrapes. But, I emerged with thicker prison walls, fortified steel in the gates. My scars a little more resilient, a little less visible.

And now, Grissom is once again plundering my soul, exposing my buried demons, releasing their prison gates. And yet, he stands there with me, beside me, defending me against those very demons; he bandages the wounds he reopens, he rebuilds the prisons he tears down. And, the scars that form will be even more durable, the prisons even more secure.

I'll never banish the demons; they will forever reside in my soul.

But maybe, one day, they will never be able to roam free.

Someday, perhaps, they will never escape again.

* * *

I wonder where to start. _How_ to start. How does one voluntarily eviscerate one's soul? Splay oneself open without disguise? 

_Well_, I sardonically muse, _Last time I just walked up to the cliff and threw myself over the edge. A 'leap of faith.'_

And Grissom was there, to shoulder the fall.

And so, I dive headlong from the cliff, once again. Knowing that Grissom will unerringly find my demons, relentlessly track them, no matter what words I use. Throwing out a sentence, a random revelation, as if we were in the middle of a conversation, rather than the outset of one:

"My mother was diagnosed bipolar. When she was committed. After my father died."

Grissom remains silent, allowing me to pace my confession.

"She self-medicated with alcohol…

"My father medicated with his fists."

"And you?" comes the soft inquiry.

"Me?"

"How did you… medicate?" he gently inquires.

"My medication was books. They provided me an escape, a means to assume a different life, to live in a different world. Books were my sanctuary."

Continuing, "Books, I could trust. Because they never change. They never lie. The outcome, the ending, it's always the same, no matter how many times you read it.

"Books, I could trust," I repeat, staring with sightless eyes out my apartment window, absorbed by the steely grey of the overcast skies. "It was just easier not to trust people. Less pain. Less chance of getting hurt."

"'_It is impossible to go through life without trust. That is to be imprisoned in the worst cell of all: oneself.'_" Grissom gently breaks the silence, identifying the author, "Grahame Greene."

Whirling around to face him, I furiously expel the words, "You think trust is a concept that comes easily to me? Christ, Grissom! I grew up in a house where my father vacillated between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde based on the performance of his damn baseball team. And my mother's emotional gauge centered on how many open beer bottles littered the breakfast table in the morning."

Tempest passed, I collapse bonelessly on the couch.

Wearily, I continue, "Trust," I scoff. "I never _had_ a stable adult presence in my youth. Hell, I never had a stable _any_thing in my youth. My teenage years, I was passed around, from foster home to foster home, like a discarded trinket, the leftovers that nobody wanted to scrape onto _their_ plate. I sought refuge in books, escape in the worlds of the written word. But even that only served to differentiate me further from everyone.

"It wasn't until college, until Harvard, that I began to piece myself to together again. And it wasn't until I discovered the world of forensics that I regained my equilibrium, my stability, that I located the cornerstone of a foundation upon which I could rebuild my life, my _self_."

Continuing softly, "_You_ gave me that, Grissom. You gave me this world. This purpose. This voice, that I didn't know I had. The voice to speak for those who have lost theirs, until they can rediscover them."

"Like Mandy Hudson?"

I nod in silence.

"Like the teenage Sara Sidle?"

* * *

The tears, when they come, arrive in an unstoppable torrent, the anguish a physical pain in my chest. I resort to the defenses of my childhood, adopting the mannerisms of my adolescence – seeking invisibility, curling inward, retreating into myself, physically and psychologically, attempting to make myself as small as possible. Drawing my knees to my chest. Hugging them tighter. Pulling my mantle of invisibility around me. 

Except that Grissom is there, stealing it away.

I can't hide from him.

Somehow, his arm has replaced my protective cloak, snaking around my shoulders. Pulling me to him, in an unspeakably awkward embrace.

I've never felt so safe.

My nose nestled in the juncture of his arm and shoulder, I breathe in the scent that is indefinably _Grissom_. I don't allow myself to think of the infinite awkwardness that will descend upon us, upon our relationship, tomorrow. I just breathe in and out, letting the tears fall unchecked, letting my soul bleed its torment and anguish.

* * *

An indefinite period of time later, emotionally spent, I feel the heavy weight of leaden eyelids, from the cathartic release of stockpiled tears, accruing interest for over two decades. 

Sleep claims me, and with it the blissful absence of sensation.

* * *

In the gauzy transition that exists between dreams and waking, I feel my body being shifted, my head being gently guided to the feathery cushion of a pillow, and I struggle to surface through the strata of consciousness. Before I exit the realm of slumber, however, a soft, indecipherable murmuring sounds in my ear, easing me back into sleep's embrace. A cocoon of cotton blankets me, capturing warmth against my chilled soul, and a semi-conscious corner of my brain idly notes the competent hands tucking my cottony chrysalis around me. 

I'm reasonably confident that I only imagined the gentle brush of fingertips through my hair.

And I'm certain that the soft press of lips to my forehead was woven from the fabric of my dreams.

* * *

(#) Excerpts from the poem _Three Women_, by Sylvia Plath, 1962. 

A/N: This was a tough chapter to write, trying to convey all the emotion yet still keeping things realistic. As I mentioned, I'll be internet-less for a few days, but hopefully will be able to post again by the weekend. I'd love to hear your feedback on the last couple of chapters!


	10. Chapter 10

Author's note: Well, I'm back! And will hopefully be able to post more regularly now. (Although, ever since Thursday night, I've been curiously afflicted with spontaneous outbreaks of irrepressible grinning…) But first – Wow, _thank you_ to those who reviewed! Your comments and feedback are sincerely appreciated, and I'm thrilled that people are enjoying this story! Especially as I'm pretty much wingin' it, as I write. So advice and suggestions are definitely taken under consideration. I'm sorry that I only have a relatively short chapter to offer, less heavy on the tormented-emotion than the last couple, but the next one will be longer. Promise.

* * *

**Chapter 10**

I wake to the muted amber hues of late-afternoon sunlight spilling through the corners of my curtains. Bathed in warmth and light, a sense of tranquility and security that feels as foreign as it does welcome. Mildly disoriented until I recognize my position on my living room couch, safely cocooned in a cotton throw. A quick glance confirms the time: 4:52.

There were no nightmares last night. And no dreams. Only sleep.

Something served to keep both the demons and the dreams at bay, and I sit up, more energized than I've felt in a long time. A _long_ time.

I almost manage to convince myself that the events of yesterday were just another nightmare – _An incredibly lucid and detailed nightmare_, I readily admit – when I espy a folded slip of paper, propped against a glass of water, resting on my coffeetable. 'Sara' written in a familiar scrawl.

Opening it, with a slight degree of apprehension eclipsed by a larger dose of curiosity, I read:

_Though nothing can bring back the hour  
__Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;  
__We will grieve not, rather find  
__Strength in what remains behind,  
__In the primal sympathy  
__Which having been must ever be,  
__In the soothing thoughts that spring  
__Out of human suffering,  
__In the faith that looks through death,  
__In the years that bring the philosophic mind.  
__-- William Wordsworth _(#)

Reading the words aloud, they wash over me in a comforting wave. Of potential. Of hope. _Typical Grissom_, I think, _turning to poetry to articulate what he cannot allow himself to say_.

About to set the paper down, I realize that I almost overlooked the postscript:

'Peanut butter and beets? An interesting combination, to be certain, although I believe that _jelly_ is most commonly partnered with the former. But then, you never were "common," Sara. And, as I am particularly partial to chili-flavored mealworms, who am I to complain? – G'

_Peanut butter and beets?_ What the_ hell_ was Grissom talking about?

And then, the blood rapidly draining from my face, I remember my surreal shopping experience of yesterday afternoon, of returning with avocados and Worcestershire sauce, with band-aids and beets. My eyes immediately swing to the kitchen counter, where the eclectic assortment of groceries from my excursion still sits, on prominent display.

_Oh… Fuck._

Definitely less embarrassing than if I'd left my underwear draped over the armchair – which I hurriedly verify that I _hadn't_ – but humiliating nonetheless. As I pick up the box of cartoon-themed band-aids, I console myself with the thought that Grissom probably has no idea what the hell that yellow, underwear-clad, animated sponge is either.

* * *

I head in to the lab early, not out of any masochistic compulsion to exceed my overtime allotment, but because I want to log in the evidence from Mandy's processing. I assume that it's still locked in my kit, which is presumably still locked in Grissom's GMC. Meaning that I'll have to perform some creative breaking-and-entering into his office to retrieve the keys to the vehicle. 

I just hope that Ecklie isn't marauding the halls to catch me in the act.

But… Grissom wouldn't leave evidence unattended in his vehicle overnight – Damn, over_day_? Six years on graveyard, and some clichéd phrases unfailingly filter through. Well, regardless of semantics, he almost certainly toted my kit into the evidence room.

But, when I arrive at the lab, I'm stunned to find that my evidence has already been logged in, the initials GG scrawled after every item, DNA samples sent to Wendy, trace shuttled over to Hodges.

"Sara!"

Startled, I turn abruptly at the sound of Grissom's voice. He's clearly surprised to see me. Surprised, and… admonishing?

Harboring strong suspicions as to the source of his reproach, I placatingly say, "Relax, Grissom. Before you accuse me of sadistically subjecting you to HR hell," referring to his paperwork fiasco of yesterday, due to my excessive overtime, "…I clocked in less than ten minutes ago. Just wanted to get yesterday's evidence from the hospital logged in. Which I see you beat me to. Thanks for that, by the way."

Shrugging off my gratitude, he begins, stuttering awkwardly, "I… stopped by your apartment… to drive you in, but you…"

Hiding my surprise at this display of consideration behind a self-mocking chuckle, I say, "Yeah. It's probably a good thing I wasn't there to let you in."

At the flicker of hurt that fleetingly crosses his face, I hastily clarify, "Because every time you come to my apartment, I end up parading my dirty laundry in front of you, and am reduced to an emotional wreck. Not exactly beneficial to the self-esteem," I dryly conclude.

"Well, how _did_ you get in to the lab?"

"Public transportation. It _does_ exist, Grissom," I add, upon his look of doubtful skepticism. I refrain from mentioning the headache-inducing timetables and the multiple transfers I endured.

"So, you're becoming a convert to the Vegas metro system?"

"Uh… hardly. A one-time thing, no prob. But the first time I have to board a crowded city bus, reeking of decomp…? They'd drop-kick my ass to the curb."

One corner of his mouth quirks upward at this, before his face acquires a more serious mien. I can sense that he has another question for me, and I can infer its subject rather easily, when his cellphone disrupts the conversation. I laugh inwardly, biting my lower lip to curtail the smirk that threatens to break free. That's the story of my relationship with Grissom – any time a significant revelation is forthcoming, technology intrudes.

Actually, I'm grateful for the interruption. Grissom has refrained from bringing up this morning's… encounter again, seemingly content to revert to our status quo of 'no communication' – A major event occurs, I collapse into sobbing emotional ruins, and we never discuss it again.

Our relationship of late, while not completely re-establishing the easy camaraderie or laced with the casually-dropped double entendres typifying my initial years in Vegas, is vastly preferable to the period of stilted animosity that we experienced. So, I'm more than happy to relegate the events of this morning into Non-Discussion Territory.

Putting away his cellphone, Grissom says, "Sara, could I speak with you in my office?"

Apparently Grissom didn't get the non-disclosure memo.

* * *

Entering Grissom's sanctuary, I decide to pre-empt his lecture. "Look, this morning, everything was just very… raw. That crime scene was disturbingly… familiar. It evoked some deeply buried memories. But, I'm okay. And, I _want_ to stay on this case." 

I add, with a sense of urgency, "I _need_ to stay on this case. I can do it, Grissom."

"I know you can. I had no intention of pulling you off."

Pausing slightly, his eyes not meeting my face, fingers nervously fidgeting with a pen from his desk, he adds, "I trust you, Sara."

My eyes fasten on his, still downcast. I'm positive that his choice of words was not accidental, not from Grissom. Not from the man who probably subjects every syllable that crosses his lips to a dozen filters and censors. _Especially_ when subjectivity or emotionality is involved. I also don't think that I imagined the slight emphasis he placed on 'trust,' and my mind immediately latches on to the reference to this morning's conversation.

My eyes silently, relentlessly, demanding, pleading, for him to raise his gaze. Slowly, haltingly, his eyes slide over to capture mine. But once they do, the hesitancy vanishes. His recently-verbalized trust splayed infinitely more clearly in those pellucid cerulean pools.

Confessions and admissions. Spoken and unspoken. The latter exponentially more revealing than the former. As usual, words only tangle us, ensnare us. Confuse us. Trap us.

I don't quite know what to make of his statement, both the said and the unsaid. I realize that it's a huge admission for Grissom, allowing himself to trust another person. Allowing himself to _confess_ that trust. But simultaneously, I fear to read too much into it. My heart simply can't endure a round of Grissom's emotional tug-of-war right now.

And Grissom somehow seems to sense this, because his gaze loses its penetrating intensity, softening to a gentle entreaty. "Just… let me know, if things get… overwhelming."

And, as I leave his office for the breakroom, I'm left wondering when, exactly, did Grissom become an emotional guru?

* * *

(#) Excerpt from the ode _Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood_, by William Wordsworth. 

A/N: So, I'm a big, big fan of continuity. Which means that I might make references to things that I mentioned in passing, several chapters earlier. I like having that thread of connectivity woven through the story. But I also realize that these references might be slightly confusing. So, if things don't make sense, please let me know. And, if you notice any discrepancies, _please_ inform me. As I said, continuity is a good thing. Thanks! And, as always, feedback in general is appreciated!


	11. Chapter 11

Author's note: As promised, a longer chapter. Which (unintentionally) turned out to be a sort of summary of the case so far. A recapping of the evidence. And you always have to follow the evidence, right?

* * *

**Chapter 11**

"Hey, Sar," Nick offers in greeting, as he strolls into the breakroom. "Heard you had some sort of crazy love-triangle-turned-homicide out in Henderson last night."

"More like a love-quadrilateral," I dryly quip.

"Actually," Greg contradicts as he bounds in, his usual effervescent bundle of barely-restrained energy, "Our triangle-turned-square just became a pentagon, according to Brass."

Turning to me, he clarifies, "Apparently, Hubby's girlfriend's ex just re-entered the scene a few days ago, wanting reconciliation."

"Well, looks like our list of suspects just got one longer."

Nick chuckles, quickly morphing his amusement into a muffled cough when I direct a glare at him.

"And how's that double-homicide gang shoot-out of yours going, Nick?" I inquire, with faux-innocence.

He groans in response. "Bobbie's threatened to emascu… Well, he threatened grave bodily injury, if I come within 50 yards of Ballistics in the next two days."

"How many did ya give him?" Greg curiously asks.

"Twenty-three bullets and thirty-nine casings," comes the reply.

Greg winces in sympathy.

"Plus, eight firearms, half of them with altered barrels."

"Yeouch," Greg yelps.

"I'd steer clear for at least a week," I advise.

"And, peace offerings," Greg counsels. "Bribery. Pay-offs. A little sumthin' under the table. Bobbie's fond of Toblerone chocolate," he supplies helpfully.

"Dude, I'm not gonna _ask_ how you know that," Nick drawls with a teasing grin.

Deflecting the conversation, Greg asks, "So, you drew the short straw, presenting this mess to Bobbie?"

"Warrick is damn lucky," Nick bemoans.

"Warrick is damn good at 'Rock, paper, scissors,'" the man in question jibes, coolly strolling in at that moment, Catherine a half-step behind.

"Hey Cath, how'd that doghouse-arson of yours turn out?" Greg inquires.

"Argh," comes her frustrated response, as she collapses bitterly into one of the breakroom chairs. "I am gonna _strangle _Grissom. One of the neighbors wanted to get the ASPCA involved. 'Dog endangerment,' he kept insisting."

Leaning back slightly in my chair, shifting roles from participant to observer, I allow the easy, joking banter to envelope me. The friendly atmosphere is a welcome buffer, separating me from the oppressive darkness of my demons, serving to deflect my thoughts from Mandy Hudson and her father.

From my past and _my_ father.

Grissom ambles in at that moment, head bowed, absorbedly reading the dispatch slips in his hand. His arrival goes unnoticed by the rest of the team, as the teasing conversation flows around the breakroom table.

Although his eyes remain focused on the papers, a complacent half-quirk transiently uplifts one corner of his mouth, when laughter erupts following a joke by Warrick, with Greg evidently serving as the punch-line, based on his shame-faced expression.

As Grissom clears his throat, the chatter immediately subsides, everyone assuming a mien of professionalism, mentally adjusting and preparing for the upcoming shift.

As usual, Grissom begins the dispensation of assignments without prelude:

"Sara, Greg, and I are still working the Hudson case tonight. Catherine—"

"Another _dog_house burn down, Grissom?" she acidly inquires.

"No," comes his puzzled rebuttal, with a confused crease appearing between his eyebrows at her aggravated tone. "A DB, in one of the elevator shafts at Caesar's Palace."

Her expression relaxes, easing even further upon Grissom's, "Take Nick or Warrick with you."

Turning to the duo, he adds, "Whoever isn't with Catherine, stays on the shoot-out from last night."

As the boys leave the breakroom, Warrick holds out a closed fist toward Nick, challenging, "Best out of three, Nicky?"

Nick groans.

* * *

Directing his attention to Greg and me, Grissom inquires, "What happened at the gatehouse this morning, Greg?" 

"I had a _lengthy_ chat," firing a mock-glare at Grissom, "With Chuck, the night security guard for Pendleton Heights. Who, may I say, is _not _an advocate in the use of personal deodorant," releasing an aggrieved sigh.

Grissom blinks implacably.

Greg continues, "All residents have 24-hour access to the community, by entering a 4-digit code into the keypad at the gate." Pre-empting Grissom, Greg holds aloft a sheaf of printouts. "I have the keypad log going back to 8 hours before the murder. I also have video footage of the entrance gate, for the same time period.

"The guardhouse booth is unoccupied, between 11pm and 5am – not a lot of visitors, apparently, during those hours. So, of course, the natural question is – What does one do, if one does not possess a convenient 4-digit pin, and happens to arrive at the _in_convenient hour of 3 o'clock in the morning?"

Clearly viewing the question as rhetorical, Greg glibly answers himself, "Being the _thorough_ CSI that I am…" dramatically bringing his hand to his chest, "…though currently only a Level I…" coughing none-too-subtly here.

"Greg," Grissom utters warningly.

He hurriedly proceeds, "Well, there is a most-convenient 'page' function on the keypad, via which one can alert the on-duty guard to come down and manually log you in. There were…" pausing for theatrical effect, "…_no_ manual log-ins last night."

"Thank you, Gr—" Grissom begins.

"However," Greg interrupts, holding one index finger aloft, "There is _also_ a convenient walk-through gate access, immediately adjacent to the guardhouse. And _that_ entrance requires but a simple key. The lock of which is, most _in_conveniently, broken."

"So," I discouragedly note, "_Any_one could have entered the community, on foot."

"Sara…" Grissom says, in a mollifying tone.

"I'll head down to the A/V lab, start processing the video with Archie," I consentingly reply.

Offering an acknowledging nod, Grissom then asks, "What's the status on the rest of the evidence?"

"Long brown hairs, found in the master bedroom—" Greg starts.

"Found in the master _bed_," I correct.

"The master _bed_," Greg obligingly amends. "No follicular tags, but they were consistent with the sample collected from the daughter."

"And Mommy Dearest is a blond," Brass adds, strolling casually into the breakroom, "Who admittedly hasn't shared a room with hubby for more than a year."

Nodding my silent hello to Brass, I relate in a tightly restrained monotone, my anger coiling within me like black smoke from a black flame, "The daughter has been physically and sexually abused."

"Meaning that we have a new motive," concedes Brass, with a thoughtful nod. "If Daddy was the abuser, then Mommy Dearest could have conscripted some assistance in eliminating the problem."

"But if Daddy found _out_," Greg jumps in, "Then…"

"…then we could be looking for a homicidal sexual predator," Grissom concludes.

"Ah, my favorite kind of perp," Brass dryly comments.

"So, we actually have _two_ cases here – the murder of Dennis Hudson, and the physical and sexual abuse of his daughter," Grissom notes, removing his glasses and bringing one of the stems to rest on his lower lip. Following a brief pause, he declares, "For now, let's treat them as the same case, until more evidence comes in."

We all nod our agreement to this decision.

His gaze passing over the three of us, Grissom asks, "Anything else on the evidence?"

"The results from Mandy's SART exam are in DNA," I supply, "Although I'm not expecting any viable samples. And Hodges is analyzing the trace from under her fingernails."

Greg contributes, "There was absolutely nothing probative on the nightlight – no prints, no trace, nothing."

"Indicating that the attacker was probably wearing gloves," I speculate.

"What about the print on the back door?" Grissom asks.

"Jacquie's still working with it. It was pretty smudged, and only a partial," Greg defends. "Plus, Nick swamped her with prints, from all of the bullets and casings in their shoot-out case."

"And the cigarette?"

"Still in DNA," hesitantly adding, "As are most of the blood samples."

At Grissom's exasperated sigh, Greg rushes to explain, "There's a huge backlog in DNA, because of the contamination incident yesterday. Wendy's doing the best she can…"

Releasing an aggravated huff, Grissom relents, "Alright. Greg, help Wendy work through the overflow."

With a mock-salute, Greg obligingly trots off to his old turf, for the second time in two shifts.

"And I'm off to see a man about a movie," I say, gathering the files in front of me as I propel myself out of the breakroom chair.

* * *

Wandering down to the A/V lab, I find Archie thoroughly fixated on the monitor in front of him, eyes glazed in that hypnotic trance that LCD screens induce. I offer a quiet, "Hey Archie," to ease his transition back to reality.

He starts guiltily, his hand snaking out to rapidly input something onto the keyboard. As I maneuver around the bank of electronic equipment, I catch a flicker of a simulation game – something involving guns and large explosions – before the monitor display shifts to an image of the familiar entrance gate to Pendleton Heights.

Biting his lower lip, Archie darts a nervous glance at me from the corner of his eye, like a teenage boy caught with an adult magazine.

"Relax, Arch," I say, suppressing a chuckle. "We all need our breaks." Adding slyly, "We all have our vices…"

And he blushes while ducking his head. He really _is_ an adolescent, in some respects.

"So," reverting his attention to the case at hand, I ask, "What've ya got?"

"Well," he begins, "For being such a high-class, upscale community, they sure skimped on their surveillance system."

"Explain," elevating one eyebrow in inquiry.

"For starters, they have a grand total of _two_ cameras, along their entire perimeter," shaking his head disgustedly. "Fortunately for us," with a self-satisfied smirk, "…both cameras were directed at the entrance gates – one for the drive-in access, and one on the walk-through.

"_Un_fortunately," he continues, "The video from the latter is totally unviable, the tape irreparably damaged. And probably has been for several days, not that anybody _noticed_," he mutters, with a rueful sigh. "But, there's _no_ recoverable data on it, definitely none from last night."

"And the other tape?"

"Ah, yes," he says, swiveling in his chair to cue up the relevant video. "Better news there."

"The tentative TOD is between 12:30 and 2:30, so why don't you start running at 11pm?" I suggest. "That should go back far enough to catch the arrival of our perp, if he's from outside the community."

Archie nods absently, while his fingers play a piano sonata across the keyboard. After a few seconds, the requested footage obligingly appears on the bank of monitors. One final keystroke, and the timestamp begins advancing.

Consulting the logs from the gatehouse entrance, I observe, "There were no recorded entries into the keypad, between 10:47pm, when the 4-digit code of a Mr. McAllister was input, until 3:17am, the pin registered to the _Las Vegas Review Journal_… Must be the newspaper delivery carrier," I postulate.

Scoffing slightly, Archie remarks, "Pretty boring 'hood – everybody home and in bed before 11 o'clock."

We watch the dormant gate in silence for several moments, the timestamp inexorably accruing interest.

At 11:37, an aged Toyota pick-up approaches the gate. From inside the community. We both instinctively lean forward in our chairs, seeking an improved angle.

"A dirt-spattered '80s model?" Archie observes. "Doesn't exactly fit the profile of your hoity-toity SUV-burbia."

"No," I dryly concur. "It certainly doesn't. It's also going the _opposite_ direction as our would-be attacker."

The truck pulls up to the gate, which opens automatically, and then vanishes off-camera.

Noting the timestamp, I direct Archie to reverse the video, hoping to get a clear view of the license plate. Unfortunately, the layer of dirt coating the vehicle managed to obfuscate the plates, causing me to wonder if the mud-bath was deliberate.

Realizing the futility of our effort, we continue watching the tape, with Archie promising to return to the pick-up later.

Referring to the log print-outs, I absentmindedly ask, "Hey Archie? How come the logs didn't automatically record the gate opening for the truck?"

"The computer log isn't actually linked to the gate; it connects to the keypad – whenever anyone punches in their pin, to enter the community."

"So, the log only records comings, not goings."

"Yep," he succinctly confirms.

I'm beginning to agree with Archie's analysis of the low-tech quality of Pendleton Heights' security system.

Another hour of video ticks by uneventfully. Five minutes of staring unblinkingly at an unchanging image, and I find myself succumbing to an unbidden trance. My entire world reduced to a 12-inch by 15-inch square of black and white and gray pixels. Light and shadow. Fixed. Constant. Unwavering. A slightly swaying branch attached to an off-camera tree absorbs my consciousness, my eyes tracing the fluttering movements of the leaves.

And then, something intrudes upon my immutable world. A motion, a flicker. So transient that I don't even process it until several seconds have passed.

Holding one hand aloft in a gesture of restraint, I instruct, "Wait. Go back…"

Archie obligingly obeys, rewinding the timestamp approximately sixty seconds.

"Okay, now, play it in real time."

I'm not even certain _what_ I'm looking for, _what_ caught my attention. If the movement was real or imagined. But I stare determinedly at the screen, willing whatever it was to reappear.

And then, after several handfuls of tense, silence-filled seconds tick by, it does. A shadow, flickering briefly in the lower lefthand corner of the frame.

"Good _eye_, Sara," Archie commends, with an appreciative nod.

Shrugging off the praise, I ask, "Can you enhance that? Spout off some of that sexy A/V techno-jargon that'll make me _very_ happy?"

"You mean, something like – 'The camera picks up 12 percent more than you see on the screen'?"

"Yeah, something like that," I reply with a grin.

His fingers flying with a practiced expertise, an unconscious grace, Archie works his magic. In under a minute, an expanded image fills the monitor.

The video restarts. Seconds trickle like individual grains of sand through an hourglass. And then, in slow-motion, the distorted image of a boot appears, stepping in and out of the frame. Leaving behind a perfect impression of its passage in the soft soil.

"Suh-weet!" Archie delightedly exclaims, as Grissom, with his customary impeccable timing, ambles in.

"Anything from the surveillance tapes?" he inquires mildly, although the amused glint in his eyes tells me that he overheard Archie's gleeful exclamation.

With a restrained grin, I reply, "We've potentially got the perp, entering the gates to Pendleton Heights, approaching the scene. Fits our current timeline, arriving at…" consulting the timestamp on the monitor, "…12:41am. And we should be able to get a solid tread impression of that boot."

Grissom nods his agreement.

"I'll head back to the scene, later in shift, when we've got some daylight. I need to return to the house anyway," I continue, "To process Mandy's room."

And those words summon the demons that I had managed to keep restrained. Mandy's haunted eyes. Her buried torment. The sexual abuse. The physical abuse.

The distance, the separation that the evidence analysis afforded – vanished. Erased in an instant.

Grissom nods once more, his eyes softening in understanding. "Take Greg, when you—"

The discordant trill of his cellphone interrupts his directive. Unclipping the device from his belt, Grissom reads the text message.

"Doc Robbins," is all he says.

He raises an eyebrow, in silent inquiry, and I hear his unspoken question:

_Do you want to attend the autopsy?_

I nod my head, once, in acquiescence. And, once again, am struck by how loudly we communicate, without words. Without sound.

* * *

A/N: Another chapter heavy on the dialogue, which I can't seem to feel quite satisfied with. But, practice makes perfect, right? Or, something like that… More Grissom/Sara interactions in the next part, along with more revelations about Sara's past. 


	12. Chapter 12

Author's note: Another long-ish part. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 12**

We head to the morgue in silence, Grissom's eyes hooded with an impenetrable mask. His hand resuming its residence against the base of my spine, a gentle, non-invasive presence. I wonder if he is even conscious of this gesture. With how this simple touch serves to stave off the overwhelming ferocity of the darkness, of my demons. There's a safety, a security, in that palms-worth of contact. I doubt that I'll ever tell him. And I _know_ that he'll never ask. But, words would be extraneous. The understanding lies deeper than verbalization.

Arriving at the swinging doors of Doc Robbins' domain, I come to an abrupt halt, Grissom's hand pressing a little more firmly against my lower back before he becomes conscious of my aborted movement. Through the square-foot of plexiglass window, the body of Dennis Hudson is framed – naked, exposed, splayed. Physically, he bears little resemblance to my father. But my mind will forever link them.

My hyper-acuity of touch from the previous day resurfaces, to encompass all of my senses. I observe a myriad of details, as sensory receptors are flooded with input.

_(Touch)_

Grissom's hand, as it withdraws from my spine, offering the whisper of a caress, his fingers lingering imperceptibly.

His left hand pressing against the door, before being swallowed by the blue gloom of the autopsy room.

_(Sound)_

Robbins' voice trickling out, in parsed fractions, as the door rotates pendulously on its hinges – open… closed… open… closed… – before settling back into stasis:

"Hey, Gil… morni… Sara comin…"

"She'll… a minute…"

_(Sight)_

The abrasive fluorescent lights blanketing the atmosphere in a withered blue cast.

Closing my eyes briefly, then snapping them open immediately. The image of my father lies burned onto the underside of my eyelids.

_(Smell)_

Taking a deep breath, before entering the morgue, where the scent of death is tangible. An invisible presence that never dissipates, always detectable no matter how much bleach is applied.

_(Taste)_

The darkness coiling inside me. A serpent of shadow, scaling my throat.

Swallowing back the bitter, black flood of memories.

_(Touch, once again) _

Pushing against the door, which pliantly yields to my gentle pressure. The last barrier between me and my demons.

_(Surrender)_

Passing through the doorway. Voluntarily passing into the corridors of my past.

* * *

Nodding my hello to Robbins, I approach the occupied autopsy table, the cold metal mattress of death. Examining Dennis Hudson, under the ghostly blue light imbuing the room. Illuminating the crests and valleys of his body, pallid blue shadows traversing the landscape of his frame. Thankfully, the knife, that steel-edged stalagmite, no longer vertically erupts from his chest.

Eerily echoing my thoughts, Robbins begins recounting the autopsy results:

"Cause-of-death is fairly obvious. The knife was lodged in the intercostal space, between the 4th and 5th ribs. Based on the upper-body strength such force would require, I'd say you're almost certainly dealing with a male suspect."

I shift agitatedly, but refrain from contradicting Robbins. But I know. I know that a woman is capable of 'such force.' I witnessed the aftermath firsthand, forever a resident in the dungeons of my mind.

Robbins continues, "Seven stab wounds, all consistent with the knife recovered. Defensive wounds on both hands, but more heavily on the left."

"Indicating the killer is right-handed?" postulates Grissom.

"Handedness is always a subjective determination," Robbins equivocates. "But, based on the angulation of the stab wounds, I'd say yes, there's a high probability that he is _not_ a southpaw."

"Anything else?"

"Yes," gesturing for us to lean over the body. "This bruising around the mouth..."

"It wasn't visible before, at the scene," I observe.

"No, it's definitely peri-mortem, which explains why it's only now surfacing." His open left palm hovering just above the bruise pattern, Robbins states, "The attacker held something over the victim's mouth, likely to muffle any sound."

"Explaining how Mandy wasn't alerted," I murmur.

"Did you find any trace in the mouth or trachea?" Grissom inquires.

"You're not going to like it," Robbins vacillates.

Grissom stares immutably at him.

Easing the lower jaw open, Robbins reaches into the mouth with forceps, extracting a small thread. "White fibers," he identifies, holding it aloft.

"Virtually untraceable," I disconsolately sigh.

Nodding sympathetically, Robbins says, "I sent a sample up to Hodges anyway. To check for any trace chemicals."

"Tox results in?"

"His scan was clean, except for excessively high norepinephrine levels. Which, considering…" Robbins trails off, gesturing vaguely at the stabbed torso.

He glances at me with empathy bleeding through his gaze. I've long suspected that Robbins had guessed my past – well, certain aspects, anyway. His abnormal sensitivity merely serves as confirmation.

Discomforted by the display of pity, my eyes drop from his, landing on the murder weapon, resting on an adjacent table.

Grasping the sealed evidence bag, I announce, "I'm gonna take the knife up to layout. See if there's any recoverable trace under the handle."

As I depart the morgue, Grissom's voice filters through the air, "Anything else, Doc?"

"No. Nothing pertinent. All indications are that he was in excellent health. Until someone turned him into a human pin-cushion…"

* * *

I bring the knife into the layout room, where the crimson-stained bedsheets are splayed out on the light-table, a red-and-white canvas of terror. Photographs of the cast-off patterns adorning the walls.

A mock-up of the scene. A mock-up of my memories.

A mockery of my memories.

Suddenly, the overpowering smell of copper assaults me, and I flee. I end up behind the lab, in the loading dock area. Surrounded by a chain-link fence. Damn. I can't escape the cages, the prisons, anywhere.

I breathe deeply of the night air. Brisk. Biting. Its chill teeth penetrating my lungs, grounding me in reality, in the present. Wrapping my arms around myself, in a gesture simultaneously to ward off the cold temperature and of protection, of self-defense.

Lowering myself to the ground, I lean back against the concrete bulwark, resting my head on the slightly gritty surface, forearms placed on bent knees, hands dangling limply in front of me. Looking up at the sky, I see only blackness. Closing my eyes, hoping to find only blackness there, and not the endless replay of memories that have been haunting my eyelids since I first glimpsed Mandy Hudson.

The inky blackness of the night sky becomes a dark vortex, inducing a sense of reverse-vertigo, pulling me inexorably upward into its shadowed depths.

Time trickles on in silence, before an incongruous scent penetrates my consciousness. And, on the tail of the aroma, comes an awareness of another person.

Coffee.

And Grissom.

My eyes descend from the black heavens, to meet his, a steaming styrofoam cup proffered in one hand. I gratefully accept the offering, wrapping both hands around its fluid heat, as Grissom eases himself next to me. Not touching. The fabric of his jacket barely brushing the cotton of my shirt. We've perfected the art of proximity without contact, always carefully maintaining the smallest measurable distance between us. I wonder if Grissom is aware that the hair's-breadth of space only serves to heighten the awareness of his presence. Leaving my nerve-endings alert, in suspense, awaiting the touch that never arrives.

Sipping cautiously from the cup, almost welcoming the scorching burn on the surface of my tongue. The silence continues unbroken. Blanketing us with its warm texture. Cocooning us from the harsh realities of the world, the dark specters of the past. This silence is more than comforting – it's safe.

Somehow, in Grissom's presence, it always is. Always has been.

Growing up, in a house where words were yelled, not spoken; where touches were audible, not gentle caresses; the distinctive slap of skin-on-skin – Sound carried with it the potential of violence. Silence was safe.

We sit there, heads tilted, studying the Vegas night sky, complacently sipping coffee. Surrounded by silence. And then, the words begin flowing, from some unknown wellspring in my soul:

"Growing up, my family would take these crazy, impromptu roadtrips. In the middle of the night. My father would come into our rooms, wake me and my brother up at one, two in the morning. Tell us to grab our shoes and a jacket."

Speaking mutedly, not wanting to fracture the harmonious chrysalis enveloping us, the gravelly timbre of my voice an audible embodiment of the coarse texture of the concrete beneath me.

"We'd all pile into our old station wagon and just drive. For an hour. Two hours. To… wherever. A random spot on a random beach. Or a mountain. Or an old abandoned warehouse. It never seemed to matter where.

"We'd all get out and lay on our backs. And just stare at the sky. My father would tell stories about the stars and the ocean and lost ships and found treasure. Inventing them on the spot. Spinning spider-webs of fantasy from the fabric of our imagination.

"And my mother would drag out whatever strange assortment of food we had grabbed in our sleepy haste. We had feasts, those nights – buffets of pickle-and-mustard sandwiches and ice cream floats made with orange juice."

Nudging me playfully with his shoulder, Grissom teases, "And thus was born your predilection for pureed beets and peanut butter?"

Chuckling briefly in recollection of my unfortunate shopping expedition of the day before, my grin quickly fades.

"We'd lay there, appetites sated, and just watch the sunrise. Those moments were magic…"

The silence begins to reformulate around us, but before it can rebuild its protective cocoon, I shred it apart, with a softly spoken brutality:

"Those moments were magic," I repeat. "And then, in a split second, the magic would end. The fighting would begin. There'd be an argument. About getting home in time for work. Or not having enough gas in the car. Or there were too many mosquitoes. It didn't matter why. It _never_ mattered why.

"The nights, the adventures, always began so perfectly. But, like some cruel corruption of Cinderella, the fairytale always came to an end. Dawn was _my_ midnight.

"Dawn was when my mother…"

The words become lodged in my throat.

"…when I entered my parents' bedroom..."

The blackness of the night sky somehow not as black, not as sinister, as the blackness of my demons, of the darkened corridors of my soul.

"…when I found my father…"

Black memories swirling inside me, an amorphous mass of darkness. Without name, face, or identity.

Rising. Swelling.

Teeming. Suffocating.

"The magic always disappeared at dawn."

The silence reinstates itself. Tainted with memories, tinged with sorrow. Tinted with bleak melancholy.

With black melancholy.

"Ya know, it's strange," I continue, the words once again erupting unbidden from some buried source. "I have an eidetic recollection of that night. Can mentally picture so many minute details – the book on his nightstand. The closet door half-ajar. The crooked lilt to the curtains. Every time I close my eyes, I can effortlessly replay the entire scene.

"But… there's an absence of sound. Like watching a silent film. In vibrant color. On an endless loop.

"Silence was a rare occurrence in our house – there were always raised voices, frustrated shouts, the unmistakable sound of slaps and punches. Silence was… safe. There was no violence without sound. But that night, it offered no security. Silence stole it away…"

And the words stop abruptly, as if the hidden source had dried up, had been exhausted.

The silence of that night bleeding into the silence of this one.

And then, into the still night air, Grissom utters, "My childhood was filled with silence."

I sit, in mute astonishment, at this revelation. _Grissom?_ Voluntarily parceling out a secret of his past?

Now, I hoard artifacts of Grissom's life, like some kind of obsessed packrat, burrowing them in my memory. Storing them. Rotating, rearranging, reassembling the fragments, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, attempting to decipher the enigma that is Gil Grissom.

But it's a damnably difficult task, when the object of my excavation so protectively secretes the clues.

I'm like a house of cards with my demons, with the dirty secrets of my past – one little poke from Grissom's finger, and I collapse in a rubbled heap, revealing my entire hand.

But Grissom? Grissom is fucking Fort Knox.

I know that his mother is deaf. I'm not a forensic scientist for nothing. And, thanks to Catherine, I know that his father died when he was young. But, these were discoveries on my part, not voluntary disclosures on his. 'Open' and 'Grissom' have never been synonymous. So, this is big. Monumental.

I suppress the urge to raise my head from its berth on the concrete bulwark, to make eye contact with him. Talking isn't exactly a forte in our relationship, and discomforting Grissom on the heels of this revelation would be severely counterproductive, instigating one of his trademark emotional retreats. Instead, I allow the silence to resume its fluid course, bathing us in its gentle current.

A few soundless moments pass by, before Grissom once again speaks:

"'_There is not only an art, but an eloquence in silence.'_"

"Cicero?" I tentatively identify, sensing rather than seeing his affirming nod.

And I understand.

It's not just words. It's the silence between them.

It makes sense, losing his father at a young age, growing up with a deaf mother – that silence would become a means of communication. And that his eyes can be so damned _verbal_. His whole face, his entire expression, really. But the eyes exponentially moreso. They just… speak. Volumes. With an absence of sound.

Silence as a mode of communication, talking in the silence between words.

Before the quietude descends into awkwardness, or before I _induce_ awkwardness by opening my mouth and over-talking, the trill of my pager blares into our consciousness, dispelling the silent connection, the wordless bond.

"Reception," I read.

Grissom levers himself to his feet, as I allow myself one final examination of the night sky, one last exploration of childhood memories, of magic both gained and lost. In preparation to stand, I place my palms flush against the coarse surface of the asphalt, to push upward, when Grissom's hand appears in front of me, palm up, fingers slightly curled. An unconscious mirror of Dennis Hudson's hand, as it lay outstretched, a final gesture of pleading, of grasping. A pale plea of desperation.

And an echo of another hand, one vastly more familiar to me, in its gentleness and its cruelty…

An involuntary shudder afflicts me, before I consciously shake my head, to disengage the demons' talons of dark memories. Placing my hand, with only a mild hesitancy, into Grissom's, irrationally fearing, anticipating the cool, clammy texture of death; instead discovering a warm and solid anchor, offering leverage. Offering security.

Looking up at Grissom, his expression carefully rearranged to reveal nothing and conceal everything. But, before releasing my hand, maintaining the contact a half-moment longer than necessary, his thumb caresses the ridges of my knuckles, in a gesture I would have imagined, had I not been staring at our joined hands.

We re-enter the lab, in silence once more.

* * *

A/N: Kinda happy with this chapter and how it turned out, but not entirely so. I kept adding and subtracting 'til I felt like I was just spinning in circles. I began this chapter with a clear concept, but then things just sorta… evolved, of their own accord. So, it turned out very differently than I'd anticipated. But, I think it works…. Maybe… Ah, I dunno. Like I said, mostly happy. Comments would be greatly welcomed, as a sanity check, if nothing else. ;)


	13. Chapter 13

Author's note: A short, but necessary-to-the-case, scene.

* * *

**Chapter 13**

Swinging by the DNA lab on my way to reception, I inform Greg, "Hey, grab your kit – We're headed back to Pendleton Heights."

"Road trip? Cool!" is his enthusiastic response.

Jerking my chin at the PCR equipment, I inquire, "How're the blood samples coming?"

"So far, 'most everything looks to be just the vic's – all of the bloody footprints, the cast-off, the bloodpools. The knife and the handprint on the bedroom door _did_ have two contributions, but allelic commonalities confirm that the second donor is the daughter."

"So, nothing from the attacker?"

He shakes his head.

Nodding ruefully as I turn to leave, I call over my shoulder, "Meet ya in the parking lot in half-an-hour."

* * *

Arriving at reception, I nod a greeting to Judy, which she returns, pointing to a woman restlessly pacing in the visitor's area.

"Mrs. Hudson?" escapes me, in my surprise. "It's three o'clock in the morning," I state in confusion, after confirming the time on a hallway clock.

"I know," she says, releasing an exhausted sigh. "All these sedatives they've given me and, ironically, I can't sleep."

Rubbing her eyes tiredly, she continues, "You told me yesterday that you worked nights, and I figured that you'd want to talk to me, about last night… about Denny…" Her voice breaks here, cracks of weariness and grief in her façade of strength.

And yet, I find myself unable to wholly empathize with her, a frisson of anger coursing through me – part righteous fury at her abandonment, her betrayal, of her daughter; part residual antagonism over _my_ abandonment, two decades earlier.

Suppressing my distaste, I murmur, "Of course," while directing Judy to page Brass as I guide her to one of the interrogation rooms.

After the obligatory offer of a beverage is politely refused, we sit in silence for several minutes, awaiting Brass' arrival. Not the comfortable, communicative silence recently shared with Grissom; instead a tense, fragile silence, as if sound would shatter it like a dropped wineglass.

The mechanical 'click' of the doorknob, as Brass bustles in, causes her to jolt slightly in her chair. Mumbling the requisite phrases of condolence, he then unhesitatingly commences his questioning:

"How many people have keys to your house, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Keys?" she echoes, clearly puzzled by the topic. "Well, me and Denny and Mandy all have a set. Plus our neighbors, the Mitchells. For when we go out of town," she clarifies. "Oh, and my sister, now that she's in Vegas."

"Your sister?" Glancing down at his ever-present notepad, Brass verifies, "Megan?"

Upon her affirming nod, he continues, "How long has Megan lived in the city?"

"She and her husband…" At Brass' inquiring glance, she supplies, "Henry. Henry Schmidt… They moved here just over a year ago. To help out. After Tyler's accident…" She trails off. "What does it matter about the keys anyway?"

"There's no indication that the locks to your house were forced," I inform her. "Implying that whoever entered last night had access to a key."

"Oh," she replies absently. Then gives a little half-gasp, "Oh!…"

"What?" Brass gruffly inquires.

"Well, sometimes, on the nights I… visit… Michael, I forget to lock the door behind me. I mean, it's not like I leave the neighborhood. And it's always been so safe." A look of horror flashes across her face. "Do you think I… I mean, did I… Did the murderer… Oh, god…" as the blood drains from her cheeks.

Almost against my will, I offer her reassurance, "Stabbings are very personal, so a lock wouldn't have prevented this. They would have managed to break in, regardless of whether you locked the door or not."

Her head bobs up and down, as if acknowledging the truth of my statement, but the dazed look of unassuaged guilt remains fixed in her eyes.

"What arrangements did you and your husband have for your extra-marital 'dates'?" Brass asks.

"The rules were simple – No overnight guests. And you always had to be home for breakfast."

Incredulous, I question, "Do you honestly think that your daughter didn't know?"

"Those were the rules," she shrugs. "The roles we played."

"Mrs. Hudson," Brass then asks, his brusque tone belying his compassion in having to broach such a painful subject, "Were you aware that your daughter has been physically and sexually abused?"

"Wha…? No, that's impossible. Not Mandy."

Accustomed to the automatic response of denial, Brass forges onward, "We have physical evidence, collected at the hospital yesterday. Did your husband ever exhibit any… inappropriate behavior toward Amanda?"

"No!" Mrs. Hudson vehemently replies. "No, Denny would never. _Never_," she reiterates forcefully, "Hurt Mandy. He loves her. _Loved_, damnit," she amends bitterly. "He doted on her. After Ty died, she became his whole world."

"Mrs. Hudson," I gently interject, "We found hairs consistent with Mandy's, in his bed. On his pillow."

"Well, of _course_ you did," she retorts, as if the reverse would be the anomaly. "Mandy's suffered from frequent nightmares and, more rarely, night terrors, for over a year now. They started not long after Ty… She wakes up in the middle of the night, and can't get back to sleep. Denny would stay up with her, watching TV, until she fell asleep again."

"Well, that _does_ explain the DVDs we found in the master bedroom," I accede.

"I'm telling you, Denny would never let anyone hurt Mandy. He'd give his life to protect her."

"And just maybe," Brass says, exchanging a glance with me, "Maybe he did."

* * *

A/N: Long (and largely irrelevant) author's note to follow. Feel free to ignore.

Sorry for the short chapter. I've kinda hit a wall, the past couple of days, with writing, and feel like the last chapters have suffered as a consequence. The good news is that I was able to sit down and actually pound out a (reasonably) solid outline for the rest of the story. ('Cuz up 'til now, the outline was… umm… 'vague', at best. I just write, and things seem to sorta fall into place.) So, at the moment, it looks like there'll be 25 chapters, plus a short epilogue. Subject, of course, to (extreme) modification (more likely additions to the chapter count, rather than subtractions). But, there may be a lull of a few days, while I attempt to hurdle this writer's block.

I realize that the pace and progression of events in this story is, well, 'slow' seems an inadequate understatement. But, I'm trying to create a sense of immediacy, to really drag you through Sara's conscious (and subconscious) mind. That's why the tone and the tenor shifts so much, and may seem to jump around somewhat randomly. It's supposed to be this struggle, on Sara's part, between confronting her past, and trying to suppress it. I have no idea if I'm at all effective, in conveying and portraying this, but… that's my ultimate goal. I also want to instill a sense of real-ness, to the case, to the characters I'm introducing, to the settings. The end result being that things happen really slowly. So, my apologies, if it feels like I'm dragging things out; hey, I frustrate my_self_ at times with the pace. But, this is my first attempt at fiction, so bear with me please. I'm hoping for a sharp learning curve. ((grins))

Sorry for the rambling and whiny a/n. I think I just needed to vent a little. ((kicks writer's block irritably))


	14. Chapter 14

Author's note: Thanks for the encouraging reviews and e-mails! Nothin' like some good ol' angst to hurdle the writer's block. Back to the crime scene we go…

* * *

**Chapter 14**

The drive to Henderson possesses an extremely altered tenor from yesterday. No raucous music blaring from the radio, no teasing banter with Greg. My tactile hyper-sensitivity reappearing and disappearing in disconcerting bursts. My dark foreboding of the day before replaced by a stark confirmation of the horrors of reality.

Approaching the community, the welcoming sign to Pendleton Heights, with its pretentiously perfect script, grates on my already-abraded nerves. Perfected façades. _Affected_ façades. Perfectly concealed lies.

I deposit Greg outside the entrance gate, with directives to cast the boot imprint, as well as collect soil samples. I also suggest that he time himself as he walks to the Hudson's house, to give us an approximation for our timeline. Firing me a look of thinly-veiled disgust at the word 'walk,' I think I hear him mutter, "Grunt… peon… dirty work…" but allow him his venting. I was a Level I CSI once, too.

Pulling the GMC up to the gate, I wave my ID at Chuck. Recalling Greg's earlier comment regarding the night patrolman's opposition to the use of deodorant, and noting the prominent sweat stains adorning his underarms, I allow my lips to curl into an amused grin.

It'll be my last smile for the next several hours, I'm certain.

In the rearview mirror, I watch as the wrought-iron gate closes behind me in ominous silence. Prison gates to my soul. Barring escape.

Navigating the pristinely manicured streets of Pendleton Heights, I think of the masks that we all assume, the secrets we hide. The demons we bury. Nearing the crime scene, the setting is vastly different than last night's chaos of strobing lights and milling crowds. The bathrobe-clad neighbors have resumed their lives of scripted normalcy, hiding behind their shielding veils of lace curtains and Navajo White paint.

But, over time, the fabric will become riddled with moth-chewed holes. And the paint will peel and chip and crack under the harsh, unrelenting Nevada sun.

Pulling into the Hudson's driveway, the GMC occupying the spot where the ambulance that held Mandy sat the previous evening. Gripping the steering wheel tightly between two clenched fists, I inhale a deep, shuddering breath. Thinking of Mandy's diminutive feet, dangling motionless from the ambulance. Of the cold, empty world she has withdrawn into, her only companions the horrors marauding her consciousness. Of the anguishing voids of her eyes.

_The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages._ ((1))

Releasing my breath with a forceful burst, I attempt to expel the black demons as well. Grabbing my field kit from its position nestled between the driver and passenger seats, I ascend the porch steps. The house looking identical to all of its cookie-cutter brethren. Except for the black and yellow tape barricading the front door. _'X' marks the spot_, I muse inwardly, as I dodge between the criss-crossing crime scene tape.

Re-entering the Hudson's house, my impression of yesterday resurfaces, of faceless horrors and tragedies inculcating the walls. Incubating. But faceless no more.

Unable to prevent the realization that, less than a day before, I stood in this exact spot.

Twenty-two hours earlier.

Twenty-two years later.

* * *

The trail of child-sized footprints, leading backwards up the stairs, lost its crimson vividity, fading to a dullish brown. The smell of copper no longer overpoweringly cloying, but somehow even more insidious in its diminution. It wafts upon me now, unsuspectingly, in intermittent waves.

I deliberately avert my face, as I stride past the open door to the master bedroom. Amorphous demons of my past lurk there.

Easing open the sprightly decorated door to Mandy's room, the sense of sanctuary, of asylum, once again assails me. Preparing to process the room, I feel like an invasive intruder, violating her one bastion of safety. This is my job, excavating the detritus of people's lives, seeking clues, discrepancies. But, sifting through Mandy's belongings, I can't help but believe that I am dissecting my own childhood, at the same time.

I feel as though two worlds are colliding, my profession and my past. Like a train derailing, at an accelerated speed. An inevitable disaster, that I can only stand by and observe, watching in horrified and sickening anticipation.

With extreme reluctance, I undo the clasps of my field kit, the metallic 'snap…snap' sounding abrasively dissonant in the somber stillness.

Donning latex gloves and cracking open the jar of printing powder, my forensics training instinctively assumes control of my motor functioning. I find the brush, already doused in black powder, in my hand, without conscious intent. The familiar circular motion of the handle between my fingertips is soothing, calming. Comforting.

Dusting the headboard of the bed-frame, I am rewarded as an adult-sized print is revealed, ridges and whorls delineated in black. The tape-lifter produces a satisfying 'creech,' as the print is transferred from latent remnant to physical evidence.

Removing the ALS from my kit and affixing the protective UV shield, I hesitate before directing the beam onto Mandy's bedsheets. Mixed desires compete within me – Finding a semen stain would provide us with a solid DNA lead. But would simultaneously mean that her one sanctuary had been ruthlessly desecrated.

The ALS sweep is negative, and a surge of guilt accompanies the tidal wave of relief.

* * *

The overabundance of Harry Potter paraphernalia adorning Mandy's room no longer seems the amusing obsession of a young child. It's the means of escape, of distance. A secure retreat. A refuge from reality.

Picking up a paperback book from the floor, the spine cracked from excessive use, I hold it in my extended palm. The book obligingly falls open, to an obviously well-read passage. Skimming several paragraphs, my eye is arrested by one in particular – the description of a mirror, imbued with supernatural powers, in which the viewer sees their greatest desire in the reflection.

In the margin, a childish hand has written:

'I see Ty, hugging his stuffed Tigger.'

And, a little further down the page:

'I see Mom, hugging me.'

Turning to her vanity, around the periphery of the mirror, she has taped, in multicolored construction paper, the words, "Mirror of Erised."

Gazing into my reflection, I think of how the mirror in my own bedroom became a looking-glass into my memories, my soul. Exposing my dark demons. Of how I relived Adam Trent's attack, replayed in photographic negative on the reflective surface. White and black, light and dark, sunshine and shadow. Reversed, in a grisly mockery of reality.

Words filter through my consciousness, relentlessly stalking me as I seek an escape:

_But how about the eyes, the eyes, the eyes?  
__Mirrors can kill and talk, they are terrible rooms  
__In which a torture goes on one can only watch. _((2))

Standing in the doorway to her bedroom, noting the rumpled blanket on the bed, I visualize Mandy, waking from her nightmare. Stumbling from her bed, to seek solace in the embrace of her father. The safety of his room. Her one, constant anchor in an existence of darkness and lies. Chasing the demons away with movies of a boy who throws off his life of oppressed orphanage, to discover a world of magic, of infinite possibilities. And _im_possibilities.

I see her, opening her bedroom door, the absence of the steadying glow of the nightlight her first indication that something is awry.

The astringent smell of copper assaults her senses next and, although she doesn't recognize the significance of that scent at this moment, she'll never forget it, for the rest of her life.

I picture her, padding silently down the darkened corridor, bare feet pattering noiselessly on the plush carpet.

A small hand, curling around the doorknob, pushing.

A soft, "Daddy?" cracking the silence.

Moonlight filtering through the glass panes of the window.

The abnormal stillness of the room. Of the figure on the bed.

The smell almost over-powering now.

Creeping tentatively forward.

Small fingers tickling the bottom of the exposed foot, eliciting no response.

Concern growing.

Circling around to the other side of the bed.

Feet making contact with something wet and sticky.

Toes curling in the viscous liquid.

A child-sized hand reaching out to grasp the outstretched adult one.

Moonlight reflecting off of a steel blade.

Horror. Terror. Shock.

Living a nightmare.

Grabbing the knife, without thought.

Tugging. Frantic. Panic.

Unyielding. Pain.

I can't say when the illusion ceased to be solely of Mandy Hudson and her father. When the ghost of my past, of my childhood, became superimposed, like seeing in double vision.

Moving in eerie unison. Like a macabre choreographed duet of death and shadow.

Of innocence lost.

Except that, for Mandy and I, the innocence was lost, long before this night.

Time has blurred and morphed and rearranged itself, losing coherence. Losing cohesion.

Until Brass hollers jarringly from downstairs, "Sara? You up there?"

Instigating the crash-landing descent of reality.

* * *

((1)) Quote from _An Unwritten Novel_, by Virginia Woolf, 1921.  
((2)) Excerpt from the poem _The Courage of Shutting-Up_, by Sylvia Plath, 1962.  
Reference also made to _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone_, by J.K. Rowling, 1998.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's note: Sincerest apologies for the delay in posting – I manage to tackle the writer's block (sort of), and am immediately afflicted with computer woes. –sigh– But hopefully, things will remain happily operational now.

* * *

**Chapter 15**

As Brass' voice yanks me mercilessly back into the present, I realize that, while trailing Mandy's footsteps through the shadowed hallway of memory, I trailed them down the hallway of reality as well. Currently standing on the threshold of the master bedroom, I detect the intermittent slamming of car doors, engines churning sluggishly to life, as the neighborhood lazily awakens in the streets below.

"Sara?" Brass calls, once again.

"On my way," I holler, curling the fingers of my right hand into a tight fist, against the dull throb pulsing across the surface of my palm. Concealing the largely-faded scar there, the mirror image to the fresh wound, the flesh wound, bisecting Mandy Hudson's left palm.

Determinedly shaking off the ghostly reverie and the phantom pain, I return to Mandy's room, hastily gathering the evidence bags and latching my field kit, before hurriedly descending the stairs.

The child-sized footprints, Mandy's specter escorting me downstairs, a gruesome and inescapable reminder of yesterday's brutality.

The warm, bathing hues of sunlight radiating merrily through the windows, illuminating the interior of the house in golden caresses, seem absurdly out of place, a nearly violent mockery of the horrors of the previous night. Under the assault of daylight, the demons, the looming darkness, the shadows permeating the walls, have retreated. And yet, their very absence is almost _more_ insidious than their encroaching presence. Because, they're still there. Invisibility merely grants them a much greater and more terrible power. Like the undetectable scars buried beneath the skin, the unseen demons pose the gravest threat. Because they come upon me unsuspectingly, without warning. Drowning me in their sudden swells.

Upon reaching the porch, I feel as though an oppressive weight, compressing my lungs, my soul, since entering the house, is lifted. I swallow the cleansing air in greedy mouthfuls.

From the corner of my eye, I detect Brass' mouth opening, lips forming around a question, before clamping firmly closed, as he aborts his intended query. Inwardly berating myself for allowing my protective mask to slip, I pre-empt another attempt from him by asking, "Were you able to contact Michael Reston?" knowing that interviewing Mrs. Hudson's lover is the next step in our investigation.

Answering with an absent, "Yeah," Brass studies me intently, but the veil is carefully in place now, my unease artfully cloaked. Shaking his head distractedly, as if to dislodge a preposterous thought, he continues, "Was on my way over there. Just waiting for one of you science geeks to finish up."

"Lead on then," I reply, with a crooked grin, its patent falseness a physical pain, the muscles of my face obeying with reluctance the directives of my brain.

As we descend the porch steps and walk along the flagstone path, Greg appears, trudging up the street from the entrance gate. Reaching us, he relates in a clipped tone, "Twelve minutes and…" pointedly consulting his wristwatch, "…thirty-four seconds."

Apparently Greg is feeling a little punchy, that I made him walk.

"How'd the boot impression turn out?" I ask, in a pacifying tone.

He mumbles something about distinctive tread patterns and good differentiation, sullenly eyeing the ground. And I suppress a frustrated sigh at his petulance.

"Well, we're headed over to interview Mommy Dearest's male-mistress," Brass informs Greg.

"Why don't you meet us there," I propose, tossing him the keys to the GMC as a peace offering, "After you collect the soil samples from the yard."

When one of his characteristic devious grins splays across his face, I realize that I've been duped. His churlish attitude a cleverly performed act, to wheedle driving privileges from me. Evidently, my leniency in relinquishing the driver's seat yesterday morning established a dangerous precedent.

And yet, I cannot repress a genuine smile from emerging, at Greg's tactics. Like my recent grin, this smile hurts, but it carries a different pain. A healing ache, not the sting of a blatant falsity.

I offer Greg a single-fingered gesture in accompaniment to my smirk, before Brass and I walk the two blocks to Michael Reston's residence, Greg's chuckle wafting mellifluously behind us.

* * *

Standing on the sidewalk, staring at Reston's house, a settled unease creeps upon me. A nearly intangible difference, distinguishing this structure from its mass-produced brethren of manufactured perfection. An indefinable quality, teasing me, plaguing me. Mocking me, with its elusiveness. Reaching the junction of sidewalk and flagstone path, my footsteps hesitate, as I attempt to identify the discrepancy. Brass sends me a puzzled glance, before striding toward the house. Following him at a preoccupied pace, my mind furiously absorbing and processing the setting. It's nothing overt. Not one, individual aspect, but rather a summation of singly insignificant details:

The block lettering of RESTON on his mailbox, just slightly askew. Not enough to justify a complaint. But enough.

The flowers lining his private walkway, riddled with the occasional drooping and dying bloom.

The grass in his yard just a fraction longer than the neighboring lawns. Not enough to appear ragged or ratty. But enough.

A subtle-yet-intentional neglect, an almost-immeasurable decrepitude, carefully maintained.

When Reston opens the door to Brass' authoritative knock, he himself exhibits that same cultivated shabbiness. Tousled hair, rumpled shirt. Tattered jeans, one toe poking through the fabric of his right sock. Not out of carelessness. Or obtuseness. It is a deliberate affectation, a calculated tawdriness. As if he lived to push boundaries, to push buttons. Of acceptability. Of comfort.

"Ah, Las Vegas' finest," he welcomes us, with a sardonic sneer. "I've been waiting. C'mon in," stepping back and opening the door fully. "The coffee's gettin' cold."

* * *

The coffee is politely declined.

The interior of Reston's house doesn't possess that artificial construct of disarray. _Not a part of his public face_, I speculate. Imbued instead with a lived-in quality, of comfortable habitation. Certainly more real than the unnatural cleanliness and scripted order inside the Hudson's house. Momentarily, I wonder what prompted Theresa Hudson to play Donna Reed. Was it her unresolved guilt, over Tyler's death? Seeking to create perfection in the aspect of her life that she _could_ control? The absence of any photographs of their son is telling, but severely contradicts the unchanged, shrine-like condition of his room.

Giving myself a mental shake, to redirect the course of my thoughts, I focus intently on the on-going conversation:

"Mr. Reston," Brass is asking firmly, "Define your relationship with Theresa Hudson."

"It was no-strings attached sex," Reston nonchalantly justifies himself, observing my reactions with a casual intensity, as I prowl the room restlessly. "With a damn good-lookin' woman." Turning to Brass, clearly seeking confirmation of some male code of ethics, he adds, "I mean… C'mon. What man is gonna turn _that_ down?"

_I can think of a few_, I dryly reflect. _One, in particular._

Brass cuts into my internal musings: "Did you have any run-ins with the victim? Physical altercations?"

"Naw, man. I mean, I knew who he was. And I'm pretty sure he knew who I was. _And_ what was goin' on between me and Theresa. Thanks to that damn Ned Barnes." Shaking his head disgustedly, as genuine frustration escapes his affected air of indifference, Reston complains, "I swear, that old geezer's worse than a roomful of little blue-haired ladies, yapping away."

Clearing his throat, Brass redirects the conversation, "…and Mr. Hudson…?"

"Right. I'd see him sometimes, on the street, with their kid… Missy? Meggy?"

"Mandy," I correct, curtly.

"Ah, right. 'Maa-ndy,'" he sarcastically amends, drawing out the two syllables in a mocking singsong. Staring at me with a maliciously-amused smirk.

Reston obviously scorns the façades that people adopt, ridiculing them with his tattered, disinterested guise. _Which is itself an ironic hypocrisy_, I wryly observe. But I feel as if his gaze is peeling away the layers of my protective mask, exposing my demons. He can detect my disgust with him, my distaste with his actions. And is deliberately exploiting it, baiting me. Taunting me.

I narrow my eyes involuntarily under his penetrating stare, a crease forming in my forehead, and his grin widens. Smoothly redirecting his attention to Brass, Reston blithely continues, "But Hudson and I? We never talked. Nothin' to say, really. I mean, what was I gonna do, go up to him and say, 'You're not bangin' your wife, so I am?'"

"So, you _never_ approached him? He never approached you?"

"No way. Why would I? Why rock the boat? Why—"

"Mr. Reston," I interrupt his nauseating ruminations, "Do you know what time Mrs. Hudson arrived last night?"

"Yeah, she showed up just after 11:30. I remember Letterman had just finished his intro monologue."

"And she left…?"

"Umm… 'round 2:30ish. Definitely before 3."

Sliding my gaze over to meet Brass', we share an acknowledging nod – Solid confirmation of Theresa Hudson's alibi, not that she was ever seriously considered a suspect.

Brass inquires, "Have you ever been inside the Hudson's house?"

"Nah. She told me that she and her husband had some set of rules or something. No guests allowed."

"So, you've _never_ gone in?" Brass verifies.

"Nope."

At that moment, Greg appears at the front door, and I ask Reston, "Would you mind if we looked around?"

"_You_ can look anywhere you like," he says to me, with a suggestive leer.

Turning my back to him, I direct Greg to search the kitchen, with a nod of my head.

"And I'd like to collect your fingerprints anyway," I say to Reston, "For exclusionary purposes."

"Hey, whatever I can do, to help," he says, tone laced with insincerity but proffering his hands obligingly. "Although, the only thing in you're gonna find in Theresa's house, that I've touched, is gonna be Theresa."

Donning latex gloves with a pair of crisp 'snaps,' I open the fingerprinting pad before mutely rolling Reston's fingers through the black ink, then onto the blank ten-card.

"Is it just me, or is there something decidedly… sensual… about this?" he murmurs.

Ignoring his lewd comments, knowing that his coarseness and crass behavior is merely an act, performed for my benefit, to discomfit me. A part of his chameleon character. Idly, I wonder what role he adopted to seduce Theresa Hudson – Dominating, domineering masculinity? Or supportive, submissive outlet for her guilt?

Returning to the living room, Greg says, "None of the knives are a match in style or manufacturer to the murder weapon, and no shoes match the tread imprint from the gate."

Peeling off my latex gloves in two rapid motions, I collect the fingerprinting paraphernalia, closing my field kit with an audible 'click.' Trailing Brass and Greg to the door, on the threshold I turn and say, "Thank you, Mr. Reston. You've been very… enlightening."

And I suppress the temptation to shower the encounter off of my skin.

* * *

A/N: Dialogue once again bogs me down. I'm trying to integrate more of Sara's thought processes into the conversations, sort of an experiment, to try to maintain more fluidity in the story. Opinions welcome!


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Dropping my kit into the void between the front seats of the GMC, I exhaustedly slump in the passenger seat, voluntarily conceding driving privileges to Greg. A wave of weariness nearly overwhelms me. This case, the constant tug-of-war – vacillating between the present and the past, never knowing when the advantage will shift, when time will callously rewind, pausing in the darkest moments of my childhood; fearing that the rope will abruptly snap, leaving me trapped in an undefined reality, an undefined _sur_reality – has left me emotionally battered, my customary façade exhibiting telltale cracks. Wanting nothing more, at this moment, than to allow the mask to fall away entirely. But, as the driver's-side door opens, I mentally summon strength from my waning reserves, drawing my concealing cloak about me more firmly. Two decades of habit, of self-preservation, easily overcoming my transitory weakness.

Only one person has peered into the shadowed alleyways of my past, and even he was afforded only brief glimpses. Although, the temptation to open the door to him fully grows increasingly powerful and seductive…

Sliding behind the steering wheel, Greg glances at me nervously. A momentary panic seizes me, as I doubt the efficacy of my disguise. Anxiously fingering the keys, he begins, hesitantly, "Sara…"

And I dread the forthcoming question.

"…are you…" holding my breath in anticipation, "… plotting some nefarious retribution, because I swindled the keys from you?"

My pent-up breath escaping me in a relieved chuckle at his query, I permit a sly grin to cross my face, as I lean back against the headrest and allow my eyes to slide closed.

"No comment," I say. "Now, drive."

* * *

The twenty-minute ride provides me the opportunity to regain my composure, straightening the folds of the curtain shielding the window to my soul, to my past. Blocking all inquiring eyes. A weight descends along with the curtain, but it is a familiar burden, a mantle I have borne across my shoulders for the last twenty years.

Entering the lab, the ceaseless bustle and energy pooling throughout the corridors is a welcome buffer from the darkness swirling in the hallways of my psyche. The scientific principles and rationality of forensics providing another layer to my defensive façade, another degree of separation from my past.

My first stop is the print lab, to supply Jacquie with the fingerprint from Mandy's bedframe.

"'Morning, Jacquie," I greet her.

She grunts in response. "Don't tell me – you've got a dozen smudged partials. And each one is 'priority.'"

"Busy night?" I postulate, offering a sympathetic smile.

"Nick just left me with thirty-odd prints, from the elevator at Caesar's Palace."

Nodding in commiseration, before performing a mental double-take. "Wait a minute, I thought Catherine's DB was in the shaft, not the elevator itself…"

"Yeah, but somebody forced the doors open in order to dump the body. So, lucky me," she sarcastically remarks. "'Cause every grubby little kid puts their grubby little hands all over the bright, shiny doors. Leaving me with a mess of overlaid prints, most of them partials. And _all_ of them smudged," sighing disgustedly.

"Well, I've only got one, and it's a beaut," passing Jacquie the tape-lifted print.

She nods appreciatively. "For that, you get promoted to the top of the list."

I flash a quick grin in reply. "Can you do a quick comparison, with the partial from the back door?"

"Sure, but I can tell you already, they're not a match. This print has a tented arch; not so on your partial."

Sighing in resignation, I ask, "Any luck on IDing that partial?"

"I've narrowed it down to about 15 possible matches. Have to do visual comparisons from here out." Glancing at the pile of tape-lifters, she estimates, "I'll try and have an answer for you within the hour."

Placing a hand on her shoulder, I say, "Thanks, Jacquie," before continuing down the corridor toward the layout room.

Upon exiting the print tech's domain, however, I almost immediately encounter Nick. Based on his slightly guilty expression, I receive the impression that he was… hovering.

"So, Nick, you got lucky and beat out Warrick for the case at Caesar's?"

"I did _not_ get lucky," he refutes, with a self-deprecating shake of his head. "Stuck in the lab all shift, processing evidence from the shoot-out. And flying under Bobbie's radar. And now Jacquie's, evidently," waving one hand vaguely in the direction of the print lab. "I hit a dead-end in our case, naturally. And so, ended up playing chauffeur for Catherine and Warrick's evidence."

Clapping a comradely hand on his back, I confirm that he should give Jacquie some space. And that he needs to hone his 'Rock, paper, scissors' skills.

* * *

After logging in the evidence from Mandy's room, I head toward Grissom's office, to update him on the case, when I receive a summons from Brass – Hudson's girlfriend just arrived for questioning. Although Brass' text message phrased it considerably more crassly: "Hubby's tawdry mistress here."

Shaking my head in exasperated amusement, I redirect my steps, this time to the interrogation rooms. Rounding the corner, an incongruous sound reaches my ears:

"Psst. Hey. Sara," I hear, in a sibilant whisper. Turning, I detect Greg, furtively beckoning me to join him in the dimly-lit supply room.

Rolling my eyes, I oblige, curiosity mixing with aggravation.

"What's up, Deep Throat?"

"It's 8 o'clock," he murmurs under his breath, frantically indicating his watch, as if this is some cataclysmic revelation.

"And…?"

"And? It's _eight_ o'_clock_! Shift is _over_." At my continued blank expression, he clarifies, "And Grissom's on the warpath about our overtime…"

Laughing, in a normal voice, I open the door, saying, "Relax, Greg. It's the first of the month. As of midnight, our OT odometers have been reset to zero."

"So," Greg calls, as I exit the supply room, "Am I still in hot water, regarding the driving-thing?"

I merely toss a cryptic smile over my shoulder, while suggesting that he start identifying the boot impression from the entrance gate. Sometimes, suspenseful expectation is the greatest punishment of all.

* * *

Arriving at interrogation, I observe Hudson's lover through the glass walls for a few silent minutes. A pile of tattered tissues, viciously shredded, lies on the table in front of her. Her fingers methodically decimating the pliant material, unconsciously reaching for another when her hands become empty. Red-rimmed eyes betraying the depth of her anguish.

The contrast, between her reaction and Mrs. Hudson's, is startling. His wife more preoccupied with guilt, his lover with grief.

Entering the room and assuming the chair beside Brass, I begin, "Ms. Wiśniewski…"

Holding up a hand, she interrupts, "'Julia,' please." Adding, with a somber smile, "Although I commend you for not butchering the pronunciation."

"Polish roommate in college," I offer as explanation, before resuming, "Julia, tell me about your relationship with Dennis Hudson."

"We've worked together for almost five years. Ever since I moved to Vegas. He was a great friend from the start. Welcoming me, playing tour-guide to the city. Introducing me to his friends. Inviting me to his house, to meet his family." Shaking her head with a wistful smile, she softly relates, "He's _such_ a family man. So unbelievably devoted to Mandy. And, when Ty was born?" She chuckles faintly. Fondly. "The stereotypical Proud Papa – The pictures on his desk. The hourly phone calls home. And the stories…" Rolling her eyes affectionately, "Every stage of Ty's life – first laugh, first tooth, first step – we all got daily updates."

"When did the affair begin?" Brass gruffly curtails her tender reminiscing.

"Oh…" she looks taken aback, at the label of 'affair.' "I was immediately attracted to him, to his generosity, his gentleness. An attraction which quickly blossomed into love," she confesses bluntly, honestly. Unashamedly. "But I knew that he had kids, that he was married. That his family was his life. I would never become one of _those_ women," she says disdainfully. "A… homewrecker." Pausing, before continuing softly, "I loved him too much. To destroy something so beautiful as his family." Her eyes close, with a physical pain.

Unwittingly, I feel an unspoken connection with her. Which confounds me, because unfaithfulness has always possessed a bitter, painful flavor for me. A black ice-cube, lodged resiliently in my trachea. And yet, something about Julia Wiśniewski resonates tellingly within me. A diminutive woman, her sorrow unmistakably genuine, but possessing an undercurrent of strength. A fierceness, a ferocity. A core of steel sustaining her through her grief.

Visibly reassembling herself with a shaky breath, she continues, "We became good friends. That's all I would let it become. Lunch two or three times a week. Attending Mandy's soccer games and dance recitals, with Denny and Theresa.

"I was at Ty's birthday party. Got him a set of wooden building blocks," she recalls, with a mournful smile. "And then, the accident happened…" Fresh tears rise and fall, tracing sinuous rivulets down her cheeks. She irritably plucks a pair of tissues from the box, bitterly dashing the moisture away. "After the funeral, Denny… deflated. He withered, into a hollow husk. Retreating into an ever-shrinking box inside himself.

"He distanced himself from everyone, but especially Theresa. He buried himself in his work, surfacing only for Mandy. Our twice-weekly lunches ceased. Pushing everyone away. I did the only thing I could – I didn't leave.

"About a month after the funeral, I had to go into the office – an unexpectedly advanced deadline. Denny was there." Shaking her head, sadly, "Denny was _always_ there. I had seen the cracks deepening in his walls, over the previous few days. That night, I grabbed the edges and ripped them wide open. And his defenses dissolved. He shattered into a mosaic, of fractured passions and splintered pain.

As she speaks, I understand Julia's value as an editor. She possesses an ability to compose words like lyrical music.

"He told me that, what he missed most of all was human contact, physical touches and casual caresses. So, I held him as he wept.

"Nothing more happened that night. I wouldn't allow it. Nothing happened the next night. Or the next. Except…" her words trickle off. Closing her eyes briefly, she resumes, "Except, it had already happened. Denny told me that the only good thing in his life anymore was Mandy. And me. He said…" her voice breaks, tears ignored as they flow freely. "He said that I taught him to breathe again.

"I tried to maintain a strictly platonic relationship. I truly did. But Denny… I love him," she shrugs, almost apologetically. "I'd loved him in silence for years.

"He told me… He was at war with himself. He told me that, every time he looked at Theresa, he said this wave of anger would overwhelm him. He didn't blame her." Shaking her head slightly, she amends, "He didn't _want_ to blame her. And he hated himself, because he did. But he loved her. So much. And he said that was the problem, that his love and his anger were so equal. _Too_ equal. The scales always perfectly balanced. He told me that he begged, pleaded, to let one emotion outweigh the other. Either way, he said, just so that he wouldn't be ripped in half, every time he looked at his wife. Imprisoned in the worst sort of hell."

All too familiar with the prison that Julia describes, I hear the barred gates clanking hollowly, in the deeply buried passageways of my subconscious, of my soul. In the shadowed memories of my past. Feel the duet of dueling furies, battling through my childhood.

"Theresa represented the past, a tangible connection to Ty," Julia continues. "I was a… forbidden future. Only Mandy existed in the present.

"I resisted him. Until he told me that Theresa had turned elsewhere for… companionship. To rekindle a physical connection with another person.

"That was last February," she finishes. "Things have only deepened since then."

"Sex twice a week?" Brass questions skeptically. "That was 'deepening' for you?"

Julia defensively responds, "I work with him every day, and spend two nights a week with him. No, it isn't perfect. But," she says pragmatically, "Love never is. It's what we had. And it's more than I ever anticipated."

"So, divorce wasn't an option?"

"No. We discussed it. Once. His parents went through a messy, angry divorce, when he was young. Denny told me he could never do that to Mandy."

"Describe Mandy," I request.

Smiling fondly, Julia begins, "Mandy's your typical fourth-grader – Hates fractions and long-division, is enamored with Harry Potter, and boys are still in the 'cootie' stage."

"Have you noticed any recent changes, in her behavior or demeanor?" I ask, a subtle inquiry to prepare her for the forthcoming questions concerning abuse. Knowing that there _is_ no preparation for this reality.

Tilting her head in thought, she replies, "Since Ty's accident, I haven't spent as much time with her. But I _did_ notice that she's more… withdrawn lately. Almost… subdued. An understandable reaction to her brother's death, I assumed."

"Are you aware that she's been abused?"

"What? No…" A look of absolute horror creasing her face. "Mandy? Is she alright? Where is she?" placing her hands on the table, in preparation to stand.

And I am once again struck by the discrepancy between Julia's reaction and Mrs. Hudson's. The dichotomy between lover and wife, between friend and mother. This core of strength, of concerned fury, on Mandy's behalf, not the abandoning alienation of her mother.

"She's still in the hospital. Just for observation," I hastily qualify, at Julia's frantic expression.

Brass asks, "Did Mr. Hudson say anything to you? Anything about Mandy?"

Biting her lower lip, she nods imperceptibly, distractedly. "The past few days, Denny's been… preoccupied. Something was weighing on him. I tried to get him to confess what was troubling him, but he kept deferring my concerns. Said he needed confirmation first. I got the impression that he was… afraid… to verbalize whatever it was. That giving it a name would… give it substance." Bringing a hand to her mouth, she whispers, "Oh… Mandy," bowing her head as fresh tears begin to fall.

Exchanging a glance with me, Brass stands and says, "Thank you for coming in, Ms. Wiśni…" Garbling the surname horrendously, he amends, "…Julia. We'll contact you, if we have any further questions." Leaving her to compose herself, allowing grief to flow in solitude.

As we exit the glass-walled room, Greg bounds up to me, repressed excitement dancing in his eyes. "Got a hit off of the print from the back door. Jacquie was able to get a 10-point match. To a Paul Franklin."

"Paul?" Julia's voice trickles through the half-closed door, in a tone of horrified recognition.

* * *

A/N: So, I ended up delving a lot deeper into Dennis Hudson's backstory than I originally intended to. I re-wrote this chapter several times (damn writer's block), each time attempting to curtail Julia's descriptions. But, they kept working their way back in. And, although initially I was dissatisfied, I'm actually kinda glad it was so resistant to editing – Sara… relates to victims, with her intense empathy. And, in a case where the victim (_both_ victims, actually, Dennis and Mandy) has such a resonance and similarity to her past, that would only deepen her natural empathy, and her desire to truly identify with and understand them. I don't know if that makes sense, but… that's _my_ rationale anyway. Comments are, as always, loved!


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

"Paul?" Julia repeats, coming to her feet, her tear-streaked face now bearing an expression of bewildered disbelief. "Paul _Franklin_?"

Sharply looking at her, Brass brusquely confirms, "Yeah. You know him?"

Nodding dazedly, she replies, "Paul is… my ex." Her eyes flickering restlessly between me and Brass, as if they cannot pause long enough to focus. "He was at Denny's house? I… I don't understand."

But, of course, she _does_ understand. Realization crashing like a tidal wave. I watch as a multitude of emotion cycles through her eyes – denial, anger, acceptance, guilt – before the blanket of grief descends once more.

Guiding her back into the glass-walled chamber, she needs no prompting to begin, intuiting the tenor of our unspoken questions:

"Paul and I split over a year ago, last January." Staring at her hands, clasped tightly on the table in front of her. "Denny was barely treading water, at that point, drowning in immeasurable increments. And I devoted more and more of my attention, to keeping him afloat.

"Paul is an extremely jealous man. He can't tolerate sharing. 'Though, to be honest, I wasn't being fair to him. I couldn't fully invest in a relationship with Paul… with _any_one… not when Denny occupied so much of my heart.

"Paul and I…" wearily dropping her forehead to rest in the palm of one hand, elbow propped perpendicularly to the table, "…we were destined to end. I was with him, seeking a distraction from the loneliness, more than anything else. Seeking the antithesis of what I could never have," her eyes slide to mine. Seeking understanding.

Memories of my most-recent relationship flood my consciousness. Of EMT t-shirts and entomological textbooks. Of brawny physique and brainy technique. Of trivial conversation and tacit comprehension. Of spoken lies and unspoken truths.

My earlier feeling, of a shared connection with Julia, gains a sudden clarity, becoming markedly less inexplicable…

"So, it was a mutual separation," Brass postulates, shattering the half-formed thoughts in my head.

"Of sorts," she equivocates. "More like, when Paul realized the inevitable, he broke things off. A pre-emptive strike," she shrugs diffidently, "Illustrative of his controlling personality."

I ask, "Have you had any contact with him, over the past year?"

"Not really. The occasional phone-call, relaying mis-addressed mail, returning misplaced belongings. Your typical post-relationship detritus."

Her eyes fall to her lap, before focusing deliberately on mine. "But, two weeks ago, Denny and I ran into him, outside our office after work."

Leaning in intently, Brass inquires, "Did he say anything? Act hostilely?"

"No, nothing like that," she shakes her head in negation. "We exchanged the usual banal pleasantries – He said I looked good, I told him likewise. End of conversation."

"And he hasn't contacted you since then?"

"No," she replies firmly, before echoing distractedly, "No... Although…" she hesitates, continuing after a visual prompting from me, "I _have_ had a few hang-ups, on my home phone, since then. I… I didn't think anything of it," she concludes, apologetically.

Gently, I ask, "Julia, do you believe that Paul is capable…"

"… of murder?" she finishes, with a tired smile. After a silent pause, she begins, "Paul and Denny are diametric opposites," placing both hands, palm-up, on the table, studying them intently. "Paul is sharp edges and angular corners; Denny rounded arcs and sweeping curves." Inhaling a deep breath, releasing it slowly, measuredly, she declares with a single, taut nod, "Yes. Paul is capable. I can't see him doing it. But… he _could_."

And grief once again claims her.

Leaving Julia to her private anguish, Brass and I exit to the corridor. Following a brief conversation on his cellphone, he informs me, "Patrol's tracking down Franklin's whereabouts. Should be here in an hour or so. And, guess what vehicle he has registered with the DMV?"

Recalling the video footage from the entrance gate at Pendleton Heights, I reply, "A red Toyota pick-up. '80s model."

"Nineteen eighty-four," Brass confirms, with a satisfied smirk.

I don't allow myself to dwell on the ironic significance of that particular year in my life.

* * *

Awaiting Franklin's arrival, I turn toward Grissom's office, to inform him of the status of our case. My steps falter, however, as I approach the room, door closed, lying uncharacteristically dark. An unexpected, irrational pang afflicts me, at the thought that he would have clocked out already. A momentary stab of… betrayal? Shaking my head in bafflement at the incongruous sentiment and hesitantly opening the door, my lips curl into a self-mocking smile, when I espy his suede jacket draped, in his typically-haphazard fashion, over the back of his chair.

Not gone, just… absent. _As usual_, my brain snidely supplies.

_But, _not_ absent_, I internally, defiantly argue. Sagging wearily against the doorjamb, I reflect over the past day-and-a-half. Amidst the tempestuous chaos of this case, the maelstrom of black memories and buried demons assaulting me, Grissom has been a constant, stalwart support. Present even in his absence, in his silence. Saying little but communicating much.

I think of how, twenty-four hours ago, I was drowning in the black abysses of Mandy's eyes, and of how Grissom elevated me from their empty depths. I think of how he drove me home, of his sturdy presence in my apartment, his silent comprehension. His silent compassion. I think of our oddly-tranquil communion, in the loading dock earlier this morning. I think of his gentle touch, an anchor against the darkness. Feeling the ghost of it even now, lightly dusting the base of my spine.

The desire, to crawl within the dark cocoon of his office, to collapse into one of the chairs, to hide from the blackness of reality, is a seductive temptation. To yield responsibility, yield control. A frightening compulsion, because independence is my most fiercely guarded trait, intrinsic to my identity, my sense of self. A mischievous voice in my head dryly observing, _It's funny. Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody_. ((1))

And yet, my mind summons traitorously the memory of warmth and safety, curled on my sofa, encircled in a tenderly woven chrysalis of cotton and ethereal caresses.

But, no… I mentally dislodge these thoughts, as the image of a little girl, retreating within a different sort of cocoon, swims across my consciousness. A shell of emptiness, void of sensation. Filtering out light and sound. And touch. My demons roamed unfettered for far too long across my psyche, developing resistance to their gated prisons. Mandy Hudson shouldn't have to suffer the same fate. And her greatest demon has now acquired a potential name – Paul Franklin. My fingernails burrow crescents into my biceps, as my hands involuntarily clench in anger.

Levering myself upright from my slouched position against the doorframe, shrugging off my fatigue, I resolutely stride to the evidence locker – there is evidence to process, a suspect to pursue.

A rabbit to chase.

* * *

In the layout room, I pick up the knife, still contained within its evidence bag. Slicing through the seal of red-tape, I gingerly extract the weapon, blood congealed on its steel surface in crimson streaks. With steady, deft motions, I remove the rivets attaching handle to blade. The freshly-exposed metal appears disappointingly pristine, but I swab it anyway, hoping for latent biological trace. Reassembling the fragments, I slide the knife back into its transparent berth, hermetically encasing it once more.

Grasping the evidence bag to deposit it back into the cardboard carton, plastic crinkling under the pressure of my grip, I am overcome by a flash of memory. Of another knife, in another sealed bag. A young, over-zealous public defender, brandishing it wildly. My perspective from the witness stand, hands nervously fingering the hem of the skirt I had been forced to wear, toes pinched by the uncomfortably tight shoes that my case worker had thrust at me ten minutes before.

_Sara, do you recognize this knife?_

Of course I recognized it. I had used it, earlier_ that_ evening, to chop up the onions and peppers in preparation for the guests' breakfast the following morning.

Eager to resume reading my latest novel from the library – _The Scarlet Letter_, a darkly ironic selection, in hindsight – I hadn't washed the knife, leaving it resting on the kitchen counter. An omission that will forever stalk my soul, with guilt-laden, resonating footfalls.

And then, had seen it… my father's room… his chest… the blood…

The knife drops from suddenly shaking hands, clattering noisily on the layout table. An insistent throb pulsing across my right palm. Drawing in a shuddering breath, I physically force the dark memories back into their caged prisons. Not here. I can't face them here.

As I exit the layout room, I wonder, absurdly, whether, when the knife that killed my father was processed, there were traces of onion and pepper, mingled with the blood.

* * *

((1)) Quote from _The Catcher in the Rye_, J.D. Salinger, 1951.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Huffing in frustration at the empty coffee pot, I decant the used grounds into the trash before filling the water reservoir in the machine. As my fingers fumble to separate a single filter from the stack, a shadow flickers through the half-closed blinds of the breakroom. A moment later, and Grissom ducks his head inside.

Peering at me briefly, with that decisive, _in_cisive intensity of his, he reaches some internal conclusion. "Greg stashes his gourmet blend in one of my mealworm canisters," he says, confidentially. "The barbeque-flavored one, I believe."

Cocking an eyebrow at him, as I open the relevant cabinet, I inquire, "And you know this…how?"

"A sudden, 2am craving," he shrugs, semi-apologetically. "Imagine my surprise when I ended up with a mouthful of coffee beans."

Sifting through the accrued effluvia of half-empty boxes of crackers, left-over Halloween candy, and potato chip crumbs, I eventually grasp the aforementioned container. Hesitantly cracking the lid, the blissful aroma of expertly roasted _Coffea arabica_ swells through the air. Turning my head, to thank Grissom and offer him a cup, the doorway stands empty – he has already vanished.

My lips twitch into a lopsided grin.

Rationalizing that swiping some of Greg's deluxe Blue Diamond Kona is justifiable retaliation for his guilting me out of the driver's seat that morning, I feel no compunction in my theft. Although, in deference to his bank account, I brew only one cup – forty bucks a pound is quite a price-tag on a county salary.

* * *

Recharged by the infusion of caffeine, I stand and deposit my dirty mug in the sink, rinsing it half-heartedly before upending it on the drying rack. Becoming distracted, mesmerized, by the water pooling slightly in the drain, before being swallowed by the black lengths of plumbing, in gurgling mouthfuls.

My pager emits a shrill 'beep,' shattering the hypnotic trance induced by the running water. Hastily blotting my hands on my jeans, I duck my head to read the message as I walk toward the breakroom door. And nearly collide with Grissom, who is consulting his own text message.

"Archie?" I inquire, bobbing my head at his cellphone, while flushingly avoiding his gaze. Convincing myself that the adrenaline surge is due solely to our narrowly-averted collision.

He placidly nods in affirmation, gesturing for me to accompany him.

I easily fall into step beside him and, after a few silent strides, notice his hand pressing warmly against the base of my spine. Observing also that I have unconsciously leaned half-an-inch closer to him. A furrow forms in my brow, as I attempt to resolve who initiated the first movement, rather suspecting it to be an unsolvable chicken-or-egg riddle.

Seeking distraction, I take the opportunity to update Grissom on the case:

"The murder weapon didn't match any set in the Hudson's kitchen. And Reston voluntarily supplied his prints and allowed a search of his house."

"You don't think he's a suspect?" Grissom concludes, his question becoming a statement.

"I think he's a self-absorbed bastard, taking advantage of a woman consumed with grief and guilt. But no," shaking my head, "He's not a murderer. Murder would disrupt his dysfunctional little affair."

Reaching the A/V lab, Grissom indicates, with an inclination of his head, that I should proceed him inside.

Archie looks up upon our arrival, an expression of suppressed anxiety creasing his forehead. He tentatively begins, "There's a problem with the video from the entrance gate."

We stare at him, unwaveringly.

"As I've mentioned, Pendleton Heights didn't exactly break the budget on their surveillance system. They only use a single tape, for each camera, running it on a 12-hour loop. Unfortunately, at noon and midnight, when the clock on the tape resets, there's a… 'hiccup'."

"Define 'hiccup'," Grissom asks acerbically.

"The footage is… erased, while the tape rewinds," his fingers absently tapping a nervous rhythm against the keyboard.

"And how long does this 'hiccup' last?"

"132 seconds."

Sighing, I remark, "More than enough time for someone to have driven through the gates unnoticed."

"True," Archie says. "The good news is, no access codes were entered during that time."

"But the walk-through entrance would be completely unmonitored?" Grissom verifies.

"Yeah," Archie reluctantly admits. "Hence, the 'problem'…"

Resolving that we can do nothing retroactively regarding the inadequate security of Pendleton Heights, Grissom and I depart the A/V lab, wandering in the direction of his office. Turning to him, I begin to ask, "You got a minute? To review the status of the evidence?" when my pager trillingly demands my attention.

Smirking ruefully, I mutter, "Nevermind." Adding, after consulting the device, "Paul Franklin was just brought in. You joining us for the questioning?" quirking one eyebrow in inquiry.

Shaking his head, he says only, "Paperwork."

Flashing him a sympathetic grin, I peel off toward interrogation. Spying Greg in one of the layout rooms, I momentarily stop inside.

"Hey, Greg. How's it goin'?"

"Gah," he moans unintelligibly, spinning his chair slightly to face me. "I've been comparing tread patterns of the boot imprint for _hours_." Peering at me blearily across a table strewn with binders and transparencies, he avows, "If I become permanently cross-eyed from this, I'm holding the county accountable for the corrective surgery. No Sanders has needed glasses since Papa Olaf's great-uncle." Flashing me a quick grin and an exaggeratedly-suggestive tilting of his eyebrows, he adds, "It's those hardy Norwegian genes of ours."

Wishing him luck while informing him that my genes don't play well with others, I continue down the corridor. Almost immediately, I detect the whirring clatter of plastic wheels behind me, followed by a "Hey!"

Turning, to find that Greg has propelled himself out of the layout room, his chair gliding noisily but easily along the linoleum hallway. Expecting a comment regarding the universal compatibility of his genetic sequence, he instead asks, "Does this," brandishing a binder of tread impressions, "Constitute sufficient punishment for my earlier insubordination?"

"You ID that boot," I reply, "And we'll call it even."

I refrain from mentioning my consumption of a five-dollar cup of coffee at his expense.

* * *

In one of the interrogation rooms, seated opposite Paul Franklin, I detect the sharp, harsh edges that Julia Wiśniewski described.

Cold, calculating. A dependency on control.

A cauldron of vitriolic, vicious emotion, simmering just below flashpoint.

"Do you know a Dennis Hudson?" Brass questions.

"Who?"

"'Dumb' isn't a good look for you, Mr. Franklin. We matched your prints to one we found on the back door of his house. And I'm guessing we're gonna match your DNA to the cigarette butt we collected there as well. So," raising his eyebrows in an overly-dramatic appeal, "Let's try that again – Dennis Hudson? Pendleton Heights? Ringing any bells?"

"Okay. Yeah. Sure," Franklin admits, crossing his arms defensively against his chest. "I went by his house. To tell him to stay away from my Julia."

"My understanding was that she hasn't been _your_ Julia for over a year now," Brass goads.

"Yeah, well, circumstances change. That was all just a big misunderstanding anyway," he gestures dismissively with one hand.

"Uh huh," Brass nods derisively. "A 'misunderstanding.' Like the one that caused Melissa Jacobs to get a restraining order against you, three years ago?"

Slamming his hand furiously against the table, he yells, "What'd that bitch tell you? Those claims of stalking? She made 'em up."

Exchanging a knowing glance with me, Brass conciliatorily says, "Okay, Mr. Franklin. Okay. Let's go back to Dennis Hudson's house. What time was this?"

Inhaling deeply, nostrils flaring with suppressed anger, Franklin barks in a clipped tone, "'Bout 11:30... 11:45 maybe. Saw a woman, walking around the kitchen. It spooked me, so I took off."

"How did you get into the community? You walk?"

Eyeing Brass like he's crazy, Franklin replies, "No. I drove."

"The gate…?"

"Was open. Followed another car in. Maybe 10:30."

Grudgingly, I admit that this account coincides with Archie's video evidence.

"So," Brass says, "You left around 11:30. Waited around for half-an-hour, and then went back to confront Hudson."

Franklin angrily shakes his head, "No. Nothing like that. I left. Period."

"Mm hmm," Brass hums skeptically. "Let me tell you what _I_ think happened…"

"I _told_ you what happened," he irately insists.

Holding up one hand, palm outward, Brass amiably requests, "Just… just humor me, okay?" receiving Franklin's resigned slump as an indication of acceptance.

Brass settles into his narrative, resting his forearms casually on the table in front of him:

"A couple of weeks ago, really missing your old life, you find yourself near your ex-lover's office. And, like some scene out of a Hollywood script, she appears in front of you. Unfortunately for you, she's with her _new_ lover, who apparently fulfills her in ways that _you_ never could," deliberately provoking Franklin. I observe the muscles in his jaw clenching in a spiraling tension, hands clamped firmly on his biceps.

"You become jealous, of course, and revert to your old stalker tendencies – obsessively checking on her whereabouts, calling her at home, hanging up without leaving messages. And," shaking one finger at Franklin with a chiding chuckle, "since you don't strike me as the kind of guy who would think to use a payphone, I'm guessing your cellphone records are gonna reflect that."

Franklin shifts agitatedly in his chair, but says nothing.

Continuing, "You find out lover-boy's name and address – maybe follow him home one morning, after one of their midnight trysts?" Brass speculates.

"Then, late Thursday night, you sneak into his community, hovering around the back door of his house. His wife appears unexpectedly, so you tuck tail and run. However, by the time you drive through the gated entrance, your courage has returned. With no convenient car to follow this time around, you have to park outside the gate and walk. It's just shy of a mile, enough distance to _really_ get your blood boiling. Reaching the house, the lights are off, the front door prophetically unlocked. You go in, up the stairs, and—"

"No!" Franklin roars. "It wasn't like that. I was _never_ in that house. I left. And. Never. Went. Back." Emphasizing each word with a fist pounded audibly against the table. After a pause and an angrily expelled breath, he adds, "I went to a bar."

"Uh huh," Brass nods knowingly. "A _bar_. How original." Scoffingly inquiring, "And, does this _bar_ have a name?"

"I dunno," he shrugs noncommittally. "Just some bar. Off the strip."

"A bar off the strip?" Brass repeats, sharing an amused glance with me. "Right. Well, as con_vin_cing as your alibi is, Mr. Franklin, we're still going to have to search your house. As well as that lovely pick-up of yours. Now, we can either do this the easy way, without a warrant, or the hard way. What's it gonna be?"

"I've always believed that hard work is character building," Franklin retorts, with a malicious smirk. Spitefully pleased at reinstating a degree of control.

"If that were the case," Brass quips as he comes to his feet, "I'd be the Jolly Green Giant. Well, minus the 'green' part." Amending, following a brief silence, "And the 'jolly.'"

* * *

Author's note: Another case-centric, dialogue-laden chapter, which I'm never quite satisfied with. But, the next few chapters will be less focused on the case. Still full of angsty-goodness. Just… angst of a different nature…


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Awaiting the search warrants for Franklin's house and truck, I embark on the paper-trail. Settling in front of one of the computer terminals, with a carton full of folders and a cup full of coffee.

Studying the Hudson's bank records, I discover no recent anomalies in their account: Mortgage payments. Monthly car payments. Automatic deductions for phone and cable. Electric bills. Water bills. Frequent debit card use at Albertson's and Wal-Mart. The occasional ATM withdrawal.

The typical monetary bread crumbs of suburban America.

Moving on to the phone records…

Time becomes an amorphous swirl of black lines on white paper, pixels dancing erratically across the monitor. As I return from retrieving my second refill of coffee, one of the new interns – Tom? Tim? – drops off Mandy's hospital records.

My exhaustion vanishes instantaneously.

The file is blessedly thin. Beginning with the standard documentation: Pediatric check-ups. Immunization history. First ear infection. Chicken pox in kindergarten. Sprained ankle during ballet practice.

Every indication of concerned, loving, slightly over-protective parents.

_Of course_, my mind cynically remarks, _a decade in criminalistics has taught me that appearances are easily falsified._

The changes start two months after Tyler's death:

Just after New Year's 2005, Mandy's pediatrician prescribes a mild sleeping aid, _Dormidina_, to combat her severe insomnia and nightmares. The amber pill bottle, currently logged in as evidence, remains mostly full, even after fifteen months. Either the drugs were ineffective, or the Hudson's aren't followers of America's trend of over-medication.

Six weeks later, a brief memo, stapled to her file from the school nurse, notes that Mandy experienced a panic attack. _An anxiety attack in a 9-year old, and no one thought to investigate? _I pessimistically observe.

Last July, a trip to the emergency room. A horseback-riding accident, at summer camp. Removing the x-ray from its manila envelope, I flip on the fluorescent bulb contained within the light-table. It flickers lazily into wakefulness, illuminating a hairline fracture of the right ulna. About to switch off the light, something catches my eye. Peering intently at the minute aberration, my eyebrows crinkle in unease. Grabbing the film, I decide to consult an expert.

* * *

The morgue is deserted when I enter. Striding over, I slide the x-ray onto the light-box, leaning closely to examine the perceived irregularity. Unsure if it truly exists, or if my mind is merely supplying what I dreadingly expect to see.

Memories of nights spent in the emergency room. Yells. Shouts. Breaking glass. Flaring across my consciousness in white, scarring bursts, like camera flashes. Blinding.

"New case, Sara?" Doc Robbins' voice sounds from behind me. From in front of me. Twenty years apart.

"Possibly the same one," I reply, turning my head to speak over my shoulder.

Coming to stand beside me, donning his glasses, Robbins identifies, "Ulnar fracture. From a fall?" he postulates.

"A horse, supposedly," I verify. "But, what about this?" pointing to the minor abnormality. "Could it be a partially-healed spiral fracture?"

"Hmm…" Keenly studying the film, he nods slowly in agreement. "Yes. It's very subtle. But, yes." Removing his glasses to look penetratingly at me, he asks, "You suspect abuse?"

Jerking my head tersely in silent affirmation.

"Well," directing his gaze back to the light-box, "This injury is older." His index finger, hovering in the air just above the backlit x-ray, traces the outline of the break. "Happened at least ten days, closer to a fortnight, I'd estimate, before the hairline fracture."

Thanking Robbins for his assistance, I retrieve the film, wondering how many other unhealed wounds Mandy Hudson carries beneath her skin.

* * *

Arriving at Grissom's office, to find the door open, lights on, but its resident missing. Collapsing wearily into the chair in front of his desk, resting elbows on knees, I rub my eyes tiredly with the heels of both palms, pressing until multicolored sparks ignite behind my eyelids.

It's been an exhaustive shift. An exhaustive two days.

I feel intensely fragile, like an egg, riddled with hairline cracks, a fine network of filigree fissures traversing my skin. Invisible fractures, ever-expanding. Deepening. Currently unknown whether, when the cracks penetrate fully, I will retain my shape, my identity, being hard-boiled underneath the epidermis. Or if, once punctured, I will bleed out, my soul bleeding away in an uncontainable flow.

_All the King's horses, and all the King's men…_ ((1))

Standing and wandering over to browse Grissom's library, I select one of the books. A random choice, its leather casing catching my eye. I begin reading, resting one elbow lightly on the metal bookshelf, the tome splayed across my open palm.

"A fascinating study on _Necrophila americana_," Grissom's voice interrupts my perusal.

I start guiltily, involuntarily closing the book with an audible 'snap.' Turning, I experience a strange reversal of our positions – Grissom is mirroring my trademark stance, hip and shoulder propped against the doorframe of his office, arms crossed loosely against his chest. An amused smile playing across his lips.

And I am the one stuttering clumsily for words. "I… umm… was waiting… and… the books…" gesturing vaguely at the stacks.

"Sara, it's fine," he says placatingly. "I'm always happy to… share my knowledge with you."

Silence descends with a suffocating density, but before awkwardness encroaches, Grissom says, indicating the book still clenched in my hands, "Truly unfortunate in its common name, as the carrion beetle is one of the most beautiful, and most necessary, of insects."

Nodding mutely, as I turn back to the shelves. Not really seeking a lecture on corpse-scavenging beetles. Not really certain _why_ I sought out Grissom's office. Why I sought out Grissom. Knowing only that, when confronted with Mandy's demons, I couldn't face my own. Not _on_ my own.

Easing the leather-bound volume into its former berth, I muse thoughtfully, "Libraries have always been havens for me. The stacks of books an endless, infinite labyrinth of worlds to escape into."

My fingers lovingly caress the spines – the well-worn cloth with frayed edges, the suede leather; the recent editions' plastic laminate, the reinforced paper with cracks and creases belying frequent readings.

I continue, "Silence was mandatory there. No yelling. No _talking_. Just books. Books filled with words. Filled with worlds. I fell into them, like Alice stumbling down the rabbit-hole."

The words flow freely from my throat, my memory, their familiarity a comforting balm, unconsciously adopting a fluent, fluid cadence:

"_The rabbit-hole went straight on like a tunnel for some way, and then dipped suddenly down, so suddenly that Alice had not a moment to think about stopping herself before she found herself falling down what seemed to be a very deep well."_ ((1))

As I approach the end of the passage, my voice instinctively decreases in tempo and volume, the final trio of words briefly hanging suspended from the branch of silence, extending between Grissom and myself.

Feeling his eyes against my back, picturing their slightly quizzical expression, his head tilted marginally to the right, I shrug self-consciously, explaining, "Lewis Carroll's was one of the first books I ever remember reading."

Half-turning, facing neither him nor the shelves, but an intermediate point, my eyes land on his desk, cluttered with a disordered mess, a disordered mass, of paperwork, specimen jars, and journals. "I became Alice, every time I opened a book."

"So, you've been chasing rabbits your entire life," he remarks. I hear the soft smile in his tone.

My lips twitch indecisively, between a smile and a frown, a bittersweet sorrow, my gaze dropping to the floor.

"_For books are more than books,"_ Grissom quotes, in a muted timbre,_ "they are the life, the very heart and core of ages past, the reason why men lived and worked and died, the essence and quintessence of their lives."_ ((2))

Running my hand blindly along the spines, I detect the multitudinous textures under my calloused fingertips. Like brail, a language of touch. Each unique. When, suddenly, my fingers stop, in recognition. A familiar grain, a dappled, dimpled cover. The tactile mirror of another cover, of another book. The adolescent fingers of my left hand curling against its rough surface, my right hand raised while reciting a solemn pledge:

_Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?_

Memory of my voice cracking, as I muttered an inaudible, _I do._

Remembering the ghostly imprint of my hand, the silhouette of my sweaty palm, visible for a long moment after it was withdrawn.

"I've never read _1984_," I blurt suddenly, a seemingly arbitrary confession. Doubting that Grissom will be able to track the progression of my apparent non-sequitur. "I've read all of Orwell's other novels. His essays. I've read _Brave New World_. Multiple times. But never _1984_…"

My gaze focuses on the books once again, on the asylums they afford. Grissom's unspoken _Why?_ filters audibly through the silence.

"I had been waiting to read it." A lone breath of ironic laughter escapes me. "A childish whim, really, to read the book in the same year as its title, in the same month as its opening sentence." ((3))

I drop my eyes to the floor, studying the checkerboard, the _chess_board, pattern of linoleum tiles – white black white. Black.

"It was the next book…"

…white rabbits…

"…on my reserve list…"

…black memories…

"…at the library…"

…red queens…

"…when…"

White. Black.

Red.

Red. Red. Blood…

Suddenly, my throat feels as if it were pinched shut, oxygen trapped in my lungs. Words trapped in my trachea.

"I… I can't… I can't do this here," dully shaking my head. "I know we've had many an awkward conversation, in this office, but… I can't…"

"Sara," resting his hand gently on my shoulder, leaving me momentarily confused as to how he moved from the doorway to my side, in silent immediacy. In silent intimacy. "Never apologize about this. _Never_," he repeats, with force, with underlying anger. Not _at_ me, but _for_ me. On my behalf.

The invisible hand at my throat squeezes tighter. A tidal wave of emotion erupts, lodging in my compressed windpipe, threatening suffocation. The pressure building…

My stomach elects that moment to growl threateningly, dispelling the amassing tension, displacing the demons.

Disguising the swell of feelings behind a nervous chuckle.

"Sara, go home," Grissom says, with mild exasperation, his hand falling from my shoulder, leaving the contradictory sensation of warmth from its presence and cold at its absence. "I know it's the first of the month, and your overtime seems limitless. But, you spend your entire allowance in the first week-and-a-half, and then I have you moping around the lab for two weeks."

Immediately upon hearing his directive, I begin sputtering defensively, incoherently, about search warrants. Franklin's house. The pick-up. When my brain processes the word 'moping,' strenuously disputing his characterization.

He smirks fleetingly in amusement, before assuming a serious, though softened, expression. "Go home," he reiterates. "You've already pulled a double. I'll personally see to the search of Franklin's residence. And his truck will be waiting for you, in the garage, untouched, next shift."

Dipping my head in resignation, I turn to leave. The decision being taken from me, I feel the full weight of my weariness descend upon me. Crushing me.

Before I reach the door, however, softly-uttered words reach my ears: "Falling into rabbit-holes is one thing. But don't allow the darkness to consume you. _If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you._" ((4))

Merely nodding tiredly in response, as sometimes I feel that the abyss already exists, inside of me. A chasm in my soul.

As I step across the threshold of his office, Grissom adds, in a normal voice, carrying a trace of mock-aggravation, "And, find Greg and make him clock out as well. I didn't realize, when I assigned you to mentor him, that you'd end up cloning your workaholic tendencies."

Grateful to him for reinstating humor into the conversation, I fire a cheeky grin over my shoulder, asking, "And who do you think _I_ learned from?"

* * *

((1)) Quotes from _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_, by Lewis Carroll, 1865. Reference also made to _Through the Looking-Glass, _1871.  
((2)) Amy Lowell  
((3)) The opening sentence of George Orwell's _1984_: "It was a bright, cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen."  
((4)) Friedrich Nietzsche

Author's note: Whew! Went a little crazy with the literary references; my inner-nerd shining through, I suppose. I actually have a favor to ask of you, dear readers – I was hoping to get a little input/feedback, regarding Sara's flashbacks. And not just the main, Mandy-centered ones, but the shorter, briefer glimpses as well. Like the momentary flashes of courtroom scenes, the knife, the childhood books, and such. Do they… Do they make sense? Do they add to the story, contribute to a greater depth? Do they detract? Do they help the flow and rhythm? Hinder? I ask, because I'm currently muddling my way through an upcoming chapter and this… random, kind of bizarre, flashback/childhood memory keeps trying to write its way into the scene, and I'm just wondering if these little snippets of backstory are actually… beneficial to the plot, to the story. I don't know if my question makes any sense… but, if you have an opinion about any of this, I'd love to hear it! If you have an opinion about _any_ aspect of my story, I'd love to hear that too!


	20. Chapter 20

Author's note: Firstly – Thanks to all for the lovely reviews and comments! They're truly appreciated and will be taken to heart. Nextly – The first half of this chapter became an experiment with a new writing style, a new voice. (And has absolutely no relation whatsoever to the fact that it was mostly written during a bout of Nyquil-and-caffeine-induced insomnia… --grins--) A total grammatical no-no – Strunk and White are suffering massive coronaries in their graves, and I will be forever banned from membership to the MLA. But, whateva. (And if you don't get the above references, really, that's a good thing. Trust me.) Just a one-time thing, as it seemed to fit the scene. Hope it doesn't seem too strange. And also hope that a certain…event doesn't seem too out-of-character. A lot of internal debating, over whether to include it and, well…just…read. And, hopefully, enjoy!

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* * *

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Chapter 20

Swaddled in a multihued haze of palpable exhaustion. Physical weariness eclipsed only by my imminent emotional collapse.

Existing not in the present, but in the _half_-present. In the half-moment _before _this one. A disarticulated fog of individual sensations. A sequence of single events, each performed in isolation. Each distinctly separate from that preceding and that following:

Arriving at my apartment complex. The 'whishd' of the seatbelt retracting. Grabbing my satchel from the passenger seat. Juggling bag, keys, sunglasses. Hip-checking the door closed.

Climbing the stairs. Unconsciously tallying the steps:

_One…_

_two… _

…

_nine…_

Reaching _ten_, my stride automatically adjusting, from inclined- to horizontal- movement. Standing in front of my door.

My fingers extricating the appropriate key, blindly untangling its familiar shape from the jingling mass on the keychain. Sliding it fluidly into the lock. Turning the knob.

The door yielding to my insistent pressure.

Tossing the keys onto the kitchen counter. Watching as they overcome frictional resistance, skating smoothly across the laminate surface. Succumbing to gravity's inevitability. Clattering noisily to the floor.

Occupying the threshold of my apartment. My mind internally battling – _Comfort? Or proximity?_ The couch is closer, but the bed infinitely softer.

Proximity wins.

Collapsing exhaustedly on the couch. My bones reduced to rubberized calcium. My protective cloak a shredded pennant.

Propping my feet on the coffeetable. Leaning forward to unlace my boots. Toeing them off. The dull 'thunk… thunk' as they fall to the floor.

Hunger gnawing tiredly at my stomach. The mere thought of rising and preparing a meal causing my muscles to preemptively shriek in protest.

Trying to remember the last thing that I ate. Aside from a gallon of coffee.

My mind remaining stubbornly blank.

Vowing to make a call to _Mandarin Palace_. In just a minute.

Allowing my eyes to draw closed. But, despite my infinite fatigue, sleep escaping my desperate clutches.

Debating a shower. But that, too, seems beyond my energy. Beyond my ability.

Slouching. Half-reclined. Eyelids fluttering intermittently. Lolling in the gap between slumber and waking.

A dangerous doorway to occupy. On one side lies my past. On the other my present.

Two doors, existing in the same spatial plane.

Two sides of the same door.

Swinging, like the entrance to Doc Robbins' domain, open…closed… open…closed.

A pendulum. Back and forth. Give and take. Never ceasing.

Swinging. Always swinging.

Should it ever come to a stop, two worlds would collide – past and present. Past and profession.

An inevitable explosion. Grissom's damn thermite reaction.

Only, I would be supplying both components – past and present. Then and now. Adolescence and adulthood.

Leaving me obliterated. Everything that defines who I am, who I was, destroyed in an instant.

Consumed in the beautiful certainty of chemistry.

To exist only in the future. In some never-reachable timeframe.

The door, swinging open…closed… open…closed. Slowing its pace. Affording me brief glimpses through the doorway:

_Open_… Dennis Hudson…

_Closed_… my father…

_Open_… Mandy Hudson…

_Closed_… my teenage-self…

_Open_… a bloody knife…

_Closed_… a bloody knife…

The two images, sliding incrementally into stereoscopic focus. Double-vision attempting to rectify itself.

Closer… closer… clo—

A persistent knocking on my apartment door startling me from my reverie. My pulse unwittingly, unwillingly, accelerating.

Pattering to the door in my socks. Peering through the peephole. Detecting the uniform of one of Vegas' courier services.

Chiding myself for my elevated heartrate. Curiosity and caution replacing adrenaline-induced surprise.

"Yes?" inquiring, through the solid density of the door. My eyes dropping to study my feet.

Idly observing that my socks don't match – left foot advertising _Adidas_ across the toebox; right, _New Balance_.

"Delivery, for a 'Sara Sidle,' from _The House of Blues_."

"But… I didn't order anything," replying, confused.

Reading from the order slip, "From a… 'Grissom'?" he pronounces tentatively, making the 'i' hard. Giving the name a Southern twang.

Confusion escalating, not diminishing, at this information. _Wha…?_

An eerie sense of déjà vu overcoming me with a leaden subtlety – Memories of a leave-of-absence request form and a plant delivered to my door two days later.

Hastily verifying through the peephole that the courier does indeed bear food, and not a botanical specimen.

Opening the door distractedly. Tipping the kid with a couple of crumpled dollars dug out of my jeans pocket – leftover change from a Starbucks trip.

A detached corner of my mind dryly remarking that I really need to do something about my caffeine addiction.

Absently closing the door behind me. Returning to the couch.

Placing the nondescript brown bag on the coffeetable. Tantalizing aromas wafting from its depths. My stomach rumbling appreciatively.

Eyeing it like an abstract sculpture.

Certain that, beneath the layers of abstraction, of surrealism and cubism and every other –ism dredged from a long-forgotten art history course at Harvard, certain that there exists an underlying meaning, a ciphered message.

But damned if I know what.

Peeling back the top of the bag. Peering inside.

Spying a notecard resting on top of the sealed container. Hesitantly sliding the card from its envelope.

Vowing that, if it says '_From Grissom_,' I will cheerfully throttle him.

'_We may find in the long run that tinned food is a deadlier weapon that the machine gun.  
_– George Orwell

'Having personally observed the state of your grocery supplies, I felt obligated to impose some dietary guidelines. –G'

Bemusedly thinking, _Quoting Orwell?_

Recalling the end of our recent conversation, in his office. Wondering at the inclusion of the quote. Wondering at the inclusion of the _food_ with the quote.

Wondering at… Just wondering.

Too exhausted, mentally, physically, emotionally, to attempt to decipher Grissom's motivations and intentions.

My stomach vocally proclaiming – Psychoanalysis be damned, there is food to be had. _Gourmet_ food.

I eat.

* * *

Feeling moderately re-humanized now that my blood-sugar levels are within normal range, I hypothesize that a shower may restore me to humanity fully.

It does.

* * *

Donning loose-fitting sweats and an old Harvard t-shirt, I wander into the kitchen, setting water to boil. I busy myself with washing the recently-dirtied dishes, scraping the remaining ratatouille into a tupperware container.

Keeping my hands occupied to keep my brain occupied.

Shifting over to the fridge, to slide the leftovers into the void between a mostly-empty carton of orange juice and a scattered array of condiments, my feet make painful contact with the keys lying forgotten on the floor. The kettle whistles merrily and, stifling a curse, I hobble to the stove. Decanting the boiling water into a waiting mug and doctoring the tea with just a hint of honey, I amble over to the couch, curling my legs underneath me as I curl my hands around the warmth of the ceramic cup.

Finally allowing my thoughts to focus on the unexpected delivery, the unexpected dinner. The unexpected gesture.

_Is this an olive branch?_ I wonder. _Is it more?_ Not a bouquet of roses, certainly, but…

_Or is it_, releasing a frustrated huff, _just another one of his damn plants?_ The damn plant, that I've carefully and conscientiously nurtured and tended to for years.

My eyes flicker involuntarily to the bamboo stalk, occupying the corner near the window, surpassing three feet in height now. Certainly growing at a faster rate than my relationship with its bestower.

Shit. Greg may say that I can speak 'bug,' but I sure as hell can't speak 'Grissom.' Not verbally, anyway. We always seem to do much better when no words are involved, when we converse through looks and actions. And silences. And how fucked up is that? That we communicate just fine, as long as we don't actually _talk_?

Expelling a slow, controlled stream of carbon dioxide, before bathing my face in the ribbons of steam emanating from the mug clasped in my hands, drawing the heat into my lungs.

Shaking my head ruefully, I simply wish that all of my conversations with Grissom didn't have to possess a veneer disguising the actual meaning, didn't have to be encrypted. That I didn't need a damn decoder ring to translate what was _really_ being said. I wonder if I ever will.

Straightforward conversations cause him to retreat into his brusque shell, preferring to hide behind a veil of quotes and beneath layers of entendres so elaborately convoluted, so ambiguously multifaceted, that even _they_ get lost in the intricate maze of meanings.

_I feel that when he talks to me he seeks another language. I feel him evading the words which come easier to his lips and searching for more subtle tones..._ ((1))

The past several days, with the tumultuous resurgence of dark memories and vivid flashbacks surrounding Mandy Hudson and her father, I feel as if I've been endlessly seated on the Cups-and-Saucers ride at an amusement park. Circling 'round and 'round and 'round in one direction, while the ground beneath me rotates in the antipodal reverse. No opportunity to regain my equilibrium, my balance, because as soon as I be_gin_ to establish my stability, the directionality shifts, causing me to stumble once more. If only the two motions could equalize, could steady each other. Counteract their opposing polarity. Instead of leaving me nauseous and battered, with half-formed calculations of centrifugal forces resonating hollowly in my brain.

And then Grissom does something like this, tossing a monkey wrench into the machinery, ejecting me from the ride. Leaving me reeling.

The proverbial drunken sailor.

Since Thursday night, there has been an undeniable reordering in my relationship with Grissom. Not a wholesale, categorical reversal, but enough of a shift to yank the rug of status quo from beneath me.

Established boundaries are being redrawn, redefined. Reinvented.

…_I feel I have taken him into a new world. He walks cautiously into it, gently..._

And I am left without a map.

Setting the empty mug on the coffeetable, the metal spoon rattles tinnily against the ceramic rim. Fatigued, I massage the tense muscles of my neck, probing past the knotted mass of the trapezoid, to the dense ball of the levator scapulae. Moving laterally, to knead the tautness from the deltoid. Remembering the warm pressure of Grissom's hand, as it rested briefly there, communicating his silent support more profoundly than the shallow surface of words.

…_Sometimes the senses can make a great deal of the mere touch of a hand._

Releasing a tired sigh, I internally acknowledge that I've spent six years trying to solve the particular riddle of Gil Grissom. The solution isn't going to come overnight.

A glance at the clock confirms that the start of shift is less than five hours away, and exhaustion violently assaults me in a concerted, multi-lateral attack – physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual. Wearily propelling myself from the couch, I stumble into my bedroom, dissolving bonelessly onto the bed.

* * *

I spend an exhaustive thirty minutes, frantically pursuing sleep, to no avail. Successful only in weaving a tangled spider-web with my blankets, ensnaring my limbs. Pattering out into the living room, bare feet slapping lightly against the hardwood floor, I settle onto the couch. And soon find myself curled up, cocooned in the cotton throw from yesterday, still imbued with a residual warmth, rapidly succumbing to slumber's embrace.

The faint aroma of basil and oregano, lingering in the air, wafts gently through my dreams.

* * *

((1)) Quotes from _The Diary of Anaïs Nin_, February 1932; referring to her relationship with Henry Miller.

A/N: So, as I said, I hope that Grissom's gesture didn't appear too out-of-left-field. It just sort of wrote itself into the scene. Comments, as always, are loved!


	21. Chapter 21

Author's note: My continued heartfelt thanks, for your continued comments and reviews! I'm thrilled that people are enjoying this!

* * *

**Chapter 21**

I normally reserve the drive from my apartment to the lab as a period of quiet contemplation, of quiet preparation. To mentally fortify myself for the upcoming shift. Fifteen minutes, to purge my mind of all distractions, all disruptions. All diversions. Not exactly Zen meditation, but surprisingly effective in instating at least a degree of calm into my typically turbulent consciousness.

Tonight, however, my mind unerringly resumes its preoccupied contemplation of Grissom, of his unforeseen gesture. His unforesee_able_ gesture.

Still detecting the flavor of ratatouille along my tongue and against the roof of my mouth.

My brain, while resolutely avoiding any possible Freudian implications of his action, relentlessly attempts to dissect his rationale. Wondering what effect this will have on our tenuously, tentatively, restructuring relationship.

In the past, _I_ have always been the one who over-talked, who over-stepped the invisible bounds. Who broke the unwritten rules. Decimating our unstable house of cards with gale-force winds. _I_ have always been the catalyst for awkwardness and embarrassment.

But, over the past two days, the lines in the sand have been erased, by unexpectedly high tide waters. And I stand in the roiling surf, waiting to see where they are to be redrawn.

_Whether_ they are to be redrawn.

Stopped at a traffic-light, my fingers drum absently against the steering wheel, unconsciously synchronizing with the ticking of the turn signal, in a metered beat. A measured pulse.

The dynamic of our relationship has unquestionably changed, since Thursday night, since Mandy Hudson swallowed me in the bottomless chasms of her eyes. Not overtly, but the tenor undeniably altered. Silences becoming more communicative, touches laden with greater significance. An ease, a familiarity.

A…comfort…that wasn't evident before.

Oh, I still feel adolescently awkward at times, like a gawky 7th-grader. All too frequently, really. I wonder if that sensation will _ever_ dissipate. Although frankly, the butterflies that have been inhabiting my abdomen for the last half-decade – we've managed to establish an absurdly symbiotic coexistence over the years. Definitely more stable than my relationship with their underlying _cause_. And… I would miss their presence, if the awkwardness were to disappear entirely.

I think of the constant fluctuations in our interactions, our maladroit dance of choreographed polarity – push pull, backward forward. Up down. An endless emotional elevator-ride, from rooftop to basement and back again. I wonder if, like the legendary Sisyphus, I am destined to ploddingly climb and descend, toting my emotive burden in infinite, ceaseless toil. ((1))

The blare of a horn sounds jarringly behind me, deflecting the progression of my thoughts. As I pull into the intersection, I reflect that, although generating a knot of Gordian proportions in my midsection, navigating the hopelessly labyrinthine network of subtleties and nuances that comprises my relationship with Grissom _does_ afford a welcome diversion from the disconcerting flashbacks instigated by the Hudson case.

Both constitute emotional minefields, but Grissom at least helps to recapture the demons of my past that he uncages, rather than releasing them unfettered into my psyche.

* * *

Arriving at the lab parking lot, my thoughts more closely resemble the tempestuous swells of a stormy sea than the placid waters of a still lake – my evening drive blatantly unsuccessful in its establishment of calm and quietude.

Resting my forehead against the convex arc of the steering wheel, I inhale deeply, in a rhythmic cadence, breathing order into the muddled chaos of my mind, running a hasty comb through the tangled mass of knots and snarls there. Wincing as the tines snag in the stubbornly-matted threads of my thoughts.

My hand purposefully grasps the door handle, and, releasing one last exhalation, I propel myself from the driver's-seat, into the intermittently illuminated parking lot. My footfalls echo hollowly against the walls of darkness, just beyond the circular boundaries of light.

As I enter the lab, my protective mask automatically falls into place, my customary costume of concealment and deflection, unconsciously assumed in an habitual, ingrained routine.

Characteristically early, I nod my standard hello to Kathy as I pass through reception, slipping unobserved into the locker-room and out of my jacket. Clipping my ID to a belt-loop, I resolve that, when I see Grissom, I will utter nothing beyond a brief, though cordial, thank you for his thoughtful gesture. No over-talking, no instigation of awkwardness.

Leaving the next step of our lumbering ballet completely to his determination and timeframe.

I rehearse in the mirror hanging from my locker door:

"Thanks for the dinner, Grissom. It was delicious."

No. Too much. Just "Thank you." Restricting myself to a simple declaration of gratitude seems the safest course. I can't muddle a two-syllable statement.

Can I?

Sparing one final glance at my reflection, before firmly closing the door with a metallic 'clang,' I avow to say nothing more than "Thanks."

* * *

Eager to begin processing Paul Franklin's pick-up, I exit the locker-room, hoping to slide unnoticed into the garage.

And immediately encounter the object of my recent Sisyphean ruminations.

He glances at me, with that unguarded, indecipherable emotion fleetingly visible in his cerulean gaze.

The base of my spine tingles, with the phantom caress of his hand. And my _Lepidopteron_ tenants begin kickboxing in my stomach.

Nope. The awkwardness is definitely still present, descending upon me, with the subtlety of that fabled boulder. Thought flees my mind more rapidly than the proverbial rats from the sinking ship, and I begin fumbling frantically for words:

"Grissom! I just…the…"

Shit.

"…to say…delicious…"

Stop. Talking.

"…wanted…for dinner…"

_Smooth, Sara_, I dryly observe, as a tense, tensile silence floods the corridor. _Really smooth_.

Over-talking? Awkwardness? Embarrassment? Yep, pretty much covered 'em all.

My brain impassively notes that, ironically, there _is_ a complete, grammatically-correct sentence, swimming in my alphabet stew. Except for one little word.

The lone word that I was actually sup_posed_ to say.

Closing my eyes and averting my head as a self-deprecating smile forms, I attempt to summon a modicum of composure, before facing Grissom once more. Opening my mouth, to issue a retraction of my jabberwocky, he holds up one hand, palm out, effectively muzzling me.

Peering intently at me, for several silent moments.

Apparently satisfied with whatever he gleaned from my eyes, he relaxes his gaze and gestures for me to proceed him into the occupied breakroom, successfully terminating the conversation.

Aborting my 'thanks' before my lips even form around the word.

* * *

By the time I clock in and trade inconsequential pleasantries with the members of Swing, Grissom has fled the breakroom, leaving me reeling in disoriented disequilibrium. Unsure which is the greater desire: to throttle him, or thank him.

For abandoning me, before I had the opportunity to vindicate myself.

For affording me the chance to compose myself, before I had the opportunity to humiliate myself further.

As I wander down the corridor, I deliberately cordon off my cyclical thoughts, pushing them further and further from the surface of my consciousness.

_Compartmentalization is a glorious talent_, I muse. _And I learned from the master_.

Once I reach the garage, my focus is narrowly isolated, on the dirt-spattered pick-up in front of me.

Grabbing my coveralls from their hook near the door, I slide the heavy fabric over my jeans. The zipper, as I tug it vertically up my midline, sounds abnormally discordant in the cavernous emptiness of the room.

I approach the vehicle, armed with my field kit, kneeling beside the driver's-side door. Spraying the handle with Luminol, receiving a negative result for blood, I unlatch the door and crawl into the cab.

Thirty dishearteningly unproductive minutes and an unknown quantity of additional negatives later, I emerge, slamming the door behind me more forcefully than necessary. The bed of the truck is equally devoid of evidence, as is the cavity below the hood.

Determinedly convinced of the existence of _some_ physical link between Paul Franklin and Dennis Hudson, I prepare to inspect the last remaining place.

Twisting my hair into a sloppy bun and securing it in place with a pencil, I lower myself onto the dolly, its wheels squeaking irritatingly as I propel myself underneath the vehicle. But receive nothing for my efforts, except a drop of motor oil that splashes disconcertingly on my protective eyewear.

I dejectedly crabwalk from beneath the undercarriage.

And find myself staring up, directly into Grissom's eyes.

_Well, this is awkward_, comes my immediate thought, unaccountably flustered. Not out of vanity. Vanity has no place in forensics. Not after handling every imaginable bodily fluid, and several _un_imaginable ones. After discussing socially-tabooed subjects with rational, clinical detachment. After sharing an enclosed vehicle while mutually reeking of putrefaction and defecation and any number of other nauseating aromas.

No, my current discomfort has nothing to do with my grease-monkey attire. It's the fact that I'm splayed at his feet, vulnerable, exposed.

Like some goddamned sacrificial virgin.

Grissom, however, remains typically, stoically, oblivious to my atmospheric embarrassment, merely bending slightly and proffering a hand. Standing with his assistance, I feel a tension, recently absent from our interactions, gathering in the silence, its cold fingers extending into the rigid stillness. Expanding.

Unsure of what to say, of how to shatter the deafening quiet, when Grissom observes, "You missed assignments," his tone mild, non-accusatory. And yet, carrying an underlying hint of… anxiety?

Puzzled, my eyes capture his briefly, before flickering automatically to the wall-hanging clock. Noting the time, I mutter, "Damn," while removing the goggles and shedding the latex gloves. Looking at Grissom, I apologize, "Sorry. Got distracted," gesturing with one hand at the truck. "Lost track of time."

He shrugs off my apology with his usual unconcern, but I notice a layer of apprehension dissolve from his gaze. And am left with the incongruous impression that he suspected me to be avoiding him.

_Or was that merely my imagination?_

"Find anything?" he asks, with a nod at the vehicle.

Grateful to fall into the comfortable, predictable familiarity of a work-related topic. I reply, "No. Nothing." Frustratedly, "I combed every inch of that truck – no blood, no stains. Nothing," I repeat. Pausing imperceptibly, before adding, "Considering the state of the exterior," indicating the mud-encrusted frame, "The cab is abnormally tidy."

"'Tidy' as in 'taken to a detailer and vacuumed clean'?"

"No," with a sullen shake of my head. "Just not littered with fast food wrappers and cigarette butts."

"Well, you know the old adage about books and their covers…" Grissom pedantically remarks.

"Yeah, I know," releasing an irritated sigh. "I know. I was just… certain… that there'd be _some_thing there," turning slightly, to prop one elbow on the side-view mirror and massage my forehead in aggravation.

I fully anticipate Grissom's forthcoming lecture, on allowing the evidence to speak for itself, on not generating assumptions. On not permitting emotionality to cloud my judgment. I expect it, perhaps even crave that injection of normalcy, amidst the anarchic tide of recent events, of this case. Of unbidden memories.

I'm not certain if I literally jump, or if it's merely my heart which trampolines, when Grissom rests his hand gently on my cheek, his thumb offering an impossibly, infinitely, soft caress.

My eyes stab his, in inquiry, in confusion. In…

"Motor oil… from the truck," he says in explanation, with a self-conscious, half-apologetic shrug, as his hand drops to his side.

I unconsciously bring a hand, mirroring his gesture, to rub against the skin just below my zygomatic arch.

But a slightly-knowing smile plays subtly across his lips. And I'm reminded bluntly of the ghost of another touch, of a comment regarding chalk and drywall plaster.

My pulse is definitely clearing 95.

* * *

((1)) A character from Greek mythology, Sisyphus was a mortal who, after offending the gods (those vindictive bastards), was sentenced to an eternal existence in Hades, to push a boulder up the side of a mountain. Upon reaching the summit, the boulder would inevitably roll down to the base, and he would have to begin again. And again. And again…


	22. Chapter 22

Author's note: I hope that the structure of this chapter isn't too confusing. (If necessary, the italicized section can be read in reverse, although I tried to write it in such a way that it _wouldn't_ be necessary.) My muse is happily experimenting with various writing techniques, and you are my hapless guinea pigs. –grins– I have to admit that playing with the constructs of time is _fun_!

* * *

**Chapter 22**

Resting my forearms on the porcelain rim of the sink, I place my hands beneath the running water, watching as the liquid pools in my cupped palms, spilling over my fingers in erratic rivulets.

Closing my eyes, I bring my hands to my face, the cold flush of water against my skin a brisk slap to my consciousness.

I slowly lift my head, finally allowing myself to look into the mirror, having deliberately avoided my reflection 'til now. Preferring to remain ignorant, as to whether Grissom's touch had been out of genuine concern for my personal hygiene. Or if the motor oil had been as phantom as the drywall chalk of years earlier.

Dark eyes, almost black in the dim lighting of the bathroom, gaze back at me, implacable, impervious. Hooded.

Even in privacy, the mask holds firm.

As I stare into my mirrored reflection, the final moments of our recent interaction replay in the chambers of my mind. Persistent, repetitive. Resilient. The scene, spooling on the reel of a mental movie projector, re-enacted backwards, in a surreal reversal of time:

_And then, Grissom is gone._

"_Brass is on his way in, for a case review," he murmurs. "We'll be in the second-floor conference room."_

_His hand curls around the metal doorframe, as he pauses on the threshold of the garage. Half-turning, but still evading my gaze._

_Watching the broad expanse of his back, the slight slope of his shoulders, his endearingly bow-legged gait, I stand in absolute, teeming bafflement. Even more confused as to where we stand._

_I wonder, if he experienced a similar sensation, following each of _my_ emotionally-laden declarations._

_My suspicion, that he obtained a mischievous delight, in his parroting of my words, of my actions. In the disconcerting transposition of our customary roles._

_A bizarre feeling of displaced, juxtaposed déjà vu afflicts me._

_The dialogue and gestures an eerily familiar script, echoing reverberations of a past scene. Merely the perspective that is reversed._

_His softly-spoken, "Better go wash up."_

_A mute stupefaction blankets the cavernous silence._

_The timid, upward quirk of his lips._

_My hand mechanically swipes at the skin of my cheek._

_His self-conscious, one-shouldered shrug._

"_Motor oil…from the truck," he offers, in hesitant explanation._

_His tentative, almost shy, avoidance of my sharply-perplexed glance._

_The sensation of his ephemerally gentle touch triggers the eruption of rampaging butterflies in my midsection._

I detect the vestiges of that _Lepidopteron_ stampede even now, residual flutters and flurries against my abdominal walls.

Unable to repress my omnipresent curiosity, I lean over the sink, scrutinizing the pale sweep of my cheek…

…Utterly unmarred by the slightest remnant of a greasy smudge. Just a lone, rounded droplet of water, beaded on my skin.

Oil and water.

Two infinitely incompatible elements. Defiantly insoluble. In_solv_able.

Forever barricaded by an impermeable membrane.

Imbued with toxic polarities – opaque transparent. Viscous fluid.

Black white.

A memory, a distant whisper of my childhood, percolates slowly into my consciousness, bleeding outward in an imperceptible, seeping flow. Surfacing with a feeling approaching melancholy.

A time when the world was conveniently boxed into such precisely-delineated categories, perfectly right-angled. When everything existed as an either-or:

Hungry or full. Asleep or awake.

Black or white.

The grayscale transitions so impermanent as to elude my toddler-intellect.

And yet, I sought them out.

The cheap plastic beer cup, a souvenir from some long-forgotten baseball game, that my father modified, in an exasperated attempt to counteract my predilection for upsetting my juice bottle. Installing a weight to the bottom and a lid to the top, intending it to be spill-proof. Needing both of my child-sized hands to encircle its circumference, I remember my fingers, uncoordinated, worrying the slightly-curled edges of the decals decorating its exterior.

The cup captivated me.

I spent hours, pinning it to the tabletop with one chubby, outthrust finger. Then, upon releasing my pinioning appendage, clap in delight as it sprung upright. What truly fascinated me, however, was the period of unsteady disequilibrium, when the counterbalance overcompensated, canting the cup past the vertical axis. The moment of wavering, wobbling instability, before order and predictability regained sovereignty.

Physics and forces and inertia remained a decade beyond my infantile understanding. But the simple motions, the basic principles, enthralled me. The temporary escape from right-angles, from perpendicularity.

I feel that my relationship with Grissom mirrors this pattern – existing in a period of relative stasis, before an action or conversation triggers the release of an unseen finger, thrusting us onto a pendulaic see-saw. Precariously, we teeter and totter, delving into a world beyond up or down, juxtaposing light and shadow.

Veering from black and white, into gray.

The sound of running water gradually infiltrates my consciousness. Hands braced against the sink, fingers wrapped around its glazed lip, I study my reflection in the shadowed light of the bathroom. A few beads of liquid trickle down my face, tracing the path of least resistance across the plains of my countenance. Following the invisible trails of sweat, of tears shed long ago.

Gathering in my eyelashes, on my chin, the tip of my nose. Accruing mass and volume until, quivering, they outweigh gravity, splashing in plump, crystalline teardrops into the porcelain bowl below.

As a toddler, I eventually became frustrated with the endlessly-vacillating wobble of the cup, and upended it outright. Spilling juice everywhere, disproving my father's claim.

I feel as if an invisible hand has just upended _me_.

* * *

A/N: Sorry that this was such a short chapter. I had no intention of even writing this scene, but my muse sunk her teeth in, and absolutely would. not. let. go. She was adamant about the whole reversal-of-time thing too. I'm not entirely sure where the melancholic undertone came from. I blame her. But, poor Sara's been jerked around like an emotional yo-yo, so I think it's understandable. Frankly, I've given up trying to control this story; I'm just the medium through which it's being written, on the whimsy of my muse. My outline? Yeah, it's been scrapped to hell, because, well, these scenes keep interjecting themselves.

On a side note: I don't know if these a/n's, in which I describe my reasoning behind including certain things or adopting a certain style, I don't know if they're interesting/appreciated/ignored by you. As I've said before, this writing-thing is relatively new for me, and the feedback that you've been providing has been _immensely_ helpful (and appreciated) in assisting me to grow and evolve as a writer. And, sort of verbalizing my thought processes, and hearing your comments in return, is _truly_ beneficial. But, if these a/n's are just plain annoying, I can definitely stop including them. Just let me know. Thanks! And, as always, comments in general are loved!


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Ducking my head, I splash one final handful of water across my face, washing away the unintentional reverie, the unintentional melancholy.

Any remaining trace of oil.

I depart the bathroom, blinking rapidly against the unexpected brightness of the hallway. Transitioning in that threshold, from the shadowed memories of the past, to the false illumination of the present.

Heading toward the second-floor conference room, I hope to slip unobtrusively inside. But three pairs of eyes focus immediately upon me as I come to stand in the doorway.

"Running a little late tonight, are we, Sara?" Brass observes, with a teasing smirk.

Dropping gracelessly into the closest unoccupied chair, while deliberately avoiding Grissom's gaze, I grumble, "Bite me." Too fatigued to generate a more scathing retort.

My reply, evidently, was sufficiently catty for Greg, who growls with unconcealed delight, "Ooo…Rowr!"

Grissom, from his position at the helm of the table, glares at him witheringly over the brim of his glasses.

Resting an elbow on the arm of his chair and leaning in conspiratorially toward Grissom, Greg mock-whispers, "My money's on Sara." Exaggeratedly sizing me up, he justifies, "Brass may have the weight advantage, but…she's scrappy."

"_She_ also has a gun," I remark, with a pointed stare at him. "An observation you might want to take careful note of there, Greg."

"Right. Sorry," he mutters, penitent, dropping his eyes to his lap. After a few seconds, he looks up with a mischievous gleam, amending, "My money is _definitely_ on Sara."

Brass emits a snort of laughter, hastily disguised behind a muffled cough. Greg, smugly pleased, reclines in his seat, sporting a feline grin of Chesirian dimensions. And even I can't prevent a smile from tugging at the corners of my mouth.

The friendly banter acts as a balm on my frayed psyche, blanketing my turbulent thoughts and emotions.

Clearing his throat, Grissom acerbically inquires, "If you are all _quite_ finished…?" unraveling the lighthearted web that ensnared us in its sticky strands. Eyes are lowered in contrition, backs straightened, weight repositioned in chairs drawn nearer to the table. The comedic atmosphere replaced by serious focus, as we all mentally assume our professional mantles.

But, despite his apparent aggravation, I detected the telltale quiver of Grissom's upper lip, the forced gruffness of his tone. The transient glint of amusement accompanying the exasperation in his eyes. Although he would never admit as much, he was equally appreciative of the injection of humor into the dark tension of this case.

I don't allow myself to dwell on the fact that the majority of the tension originates from me. From my past.

Glancing around the suddenly silent table, Grissom asks, "So, timeline?"

Brass obligingly begins the narrative, in his typically irreverent style: "I hope you've all read the current issue of _Soap Opera Digest_, because this week's episodes include a few unexpected curveballs."

Unfazed by Grissom's aggravated stare, he persists, "Over the past fortnight, Paul Franklin, our villain _du jour_, has accelerated his stalking of his former paramour, Julia Wiśnol… Wiśinil…" Stuttering over the pronunciation, Brass resolves upon, "Wiśi-whatsit. Who is the _current_ paramour of Dennis Hudson, our recently-filleted vic."

I wince, involuntarily, at the coarse description, the corpse description. At the painfully eidetic memories it summons.

Unaware of my unease, Brass continues, "In Thursday night's episode, Stalker-boy sneaks into Lover-boy's gated community at 10…" turning to me for clarification.

"…47," I supply, after consulting my notes.

"…at 10:47pm," he resumes, with a brief, acknowledging nod to me. "He lurks around Lover-boy's backyard. Smokes a cigarette, manhandles the back door. Generally leaving a trail of physical evidence, wider than a rampaging hippopotamus."

Grissom quirks a quizzical eyebrow at the metaphor, but refrains from commenting verbally.

"Stalker-boy gets spooked off at 11…?" again consulting me.

"…37…"

"…at 11:37, when Mommy Dearest, the dearly devoted wife Theresa Hudson, enters the scene, preparing a midnight snack for her midnight tryst with _her_ paramour, one Michael Reston. Everyone still following?" he surveys the table for affirming nods, which are grudgingly bestowed.

"At 12:41am, a disembodied foot is caught on camera, at the entrance to the community. Thanks to the rookie's…" jerking his head toward Greg, who appears slightly affronted at the label, "…investigative footwork, we know it's approximately a 10 to 15 minute walk, from the gate to the Hudson residence. So, our illustrious villain, presumably attached to the photogenic foot, arrived at roughly 1am.

"Now, Mommy Dearest admits to occasionally leaving the front door unlocked, during her romantic rolls in the hay. Providing our killer with easy access to the house. He goes upstairs, turns Lover-boy into his own life-sized voodoo doll, and exits the scene, all before 3am. By which time Mommy Dearest has come home, with her scarlet letter firmly intact."

I hear the thrum of Brass' voice, as he continues his narration of the case, but my mind latches on to his final words, retrieving a long-buried memory, releasing a long-imprisoned demon:

_Scarlet letter_. ((1))

Scarlet. Letter.

Letters. Words. Sentences.

Accusations.

_How could you, Laura?_

The distant echoes of those shouted words reverberate in my head.

I remember sitting, tucked away in a window seat in our old Victorian house, hidden from the world behind a screen of curtains like Jane Eyre. Escaping, just as she did, into the written word, traveling across the continent and three centuries into the past as I turned the pages of my most-recent library book. But, like young Jane's, my sanctuary was not impenetrable, my parents' argument unerringly filtering through to my ears: ((2))

_Who was he? Or did you skip the introductions, in your haste to the bedroom?_

My father's voice, the dangerous drop in volume at the end, signifying that his fury had become narrowly concentrated. Each word expelled in isolation, like the crisp slaps that were forthcoming.

My mother's reply, muffled, slurred. Drunk.

I knew where the evening would end – the fluorescent lights and the drone of a television in the sterile waiting room, the dispassionate doctor stitching up my mother's hand or cheek. Or whatever the latest target of my father's rage.

Tensing, my fingers curled around the pages of the book that I desperately clenched, wrinkling the names of Hester Prynne and the Reverend Arthur Dimmesdale under the sweat of my palms. Awaiting the inevitable sounds. The unmistakable 'smack' of his open-fisted punch. The shattering of glass from a hurled beer bottle...

I flinch in my chair, when a sound from the present intrudes, juxtaposing itself into my dark reverie. Looking up, I see Grissom reaching out to retrieve his pen, which had clattered noisily against the formica surface of the table.

His gaze grazes mine, inquiring, probing. One eyebrow minutely elevated in an expression of concern. I offer a small, tight-lipped smile of reassurance as I duck my head, wanting to conceal the black memories from his perceptive glance. My eyes fall to my hands, clutching the files in front of me in mirroring white-knuckled grips. Eerily reminiscent… With a softly-released breath, I relax my grasp and attempt to restore my attention to the case.

My gaze shifting to Brass' mouth, I watch as his lips form around words, in an implausible silence. Some of my senses still trapped in the past. The conversation takes a few seconds to permeate my consciousness – _the discrepancy between the velocities of light and sound_, I rationalize.

"…stumbles out the door sometime before 3:30, when she receives an impromptu shower from the pre-programmed lawn sprinklers."

Following a brief period of disorientation, I realize that Brass is discussing Mandy. I suppress the images of her vacant, hollow eyes.

"At 4am, the Fred Rogers _wanna-be_-my-neighbor, Mr. Aaron Mitchell, finds her along with his morning paper, and calls us. And then, the Three Ring Circus _really_ begins," Brass concludes, with a satisfied flourish of his hand.

"_Thank_ you, Jim, for that…thorough recounting," Grissom remarks, in a voice laced with sarcasm. "I especially appreciated the _pertinent_ commentary."

"My pleasure," Brass replies, with no trace of guile.

"So…are there any other characters, in our unfolding drama?" asks Grissom.

Exchanging glances with Brass and Greg, I shrug noncommittally. "Not really. Theresa Hudson's sister and brother-in-law, who we have yet to meet, are coming in later today, to give their statements."

"And as for anybody else," Greg observes, "They're waiting 'til the eleventh hour to reveal themselves. Well, actually," consulting his watch, "the _twelfth_."

"_Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair,  
__the midnight murderer bursts the faithless bar;  
__invades the sacred hour of silent rest  
__and leaves, unseen, a dagger in your breast."_

I cock a questioning eyebrow at Grissom. Despite its macabre content, grateful for the familiar normalcy of his obscure quotations.

"Samuel Johnson," he clarifies.

"Well, Doc Robbins _does_ place the TOD between 12:30 and 1:30," I verify. "Fitting both our timeline, as well as that of Mr. Johnson."

I receive a slight smirk in response.

"That creates a fairly tight window of opportunity for our 'midnight murderer'," Brass muses.

"Indicating that he was _intimately_ familiar with the family routine," concludes Greg, with a suggestive waggle of his brow.

"Yeah, but with Nosy Neighbor Ned around, the entire community was aware of Madame and Monsieur Hudson's _comings_ and goings," Brass cautions.

Making a moue of displeasure at the poorly-delivered double entendres, Grissom asks, "What do we have on Franklin? Motive?"

"Well," I dryly comment, "Jealousy has always been a pretty prime motivator."

Absently nodding his agreement, he inquires, "Aside from the DNA and print collected outside the house, do we have anything physically linking him to the murder?"

"His truck was a bust," I reluctantly admit, "completely devoid of evidence. But…" catching Grissom's eye, "Do you remember that metal fragment we recovered, on the floor of Hudson's bedroom?"

Removing his glasses and tapping them thoughtfully against his chin, he nods slowly, in recollection.

"Turns out, it was part of a Rolex. The clasp." With a half-shrug, I speculate, "Could be a sign of struggle."

"Hudson's?" Grissom questions.

"No record of him owning one, and there was a Timex watch on his nightstand."

"Well," Brass remarks, "Paul Franklin doesn't exactly strike me as a Rolex kinda guy."

"Definitely not," I concur, before pursing my lips together in a restrained grin. "Julia Wiśniewski, however, was an _extremely_ generous girlfriend. Two years ago," I clarify, extracting the relevant document from the folders in front of me and sliding it across the table, "She made a hefty purchase at MJ Christensen Jewelers."

Donning his glasses, Grissom examines the receipt, as Brass comments, "I suppose we'll just have to go shopping later." Looking at me, he quips, "Diamonds _are_ a girl's best friend, right?"

"Forget the stones," I retort, "I'll settle for a broken timepiece."

A few moments of silence pass, before Grissom asks, "Any other evidence on Franklin?"

"Well," coughing intentionally, Greg declares, "I was _finally_ able to ID the boot impression from the entrance gate, after many _gruel_ing hours of comparison," releasing a dramatic sigh. "Naturally, the reference binders in our library are arranged alphabetically, because it was a size 11, Wo—"

"Wolverine work-boot," Grissom interrupts.

Greg, looking positively crushed, his thunder not only stolen, but deafeningly trumped. He stammers, "Wh…? How?"

"I had Archie review the video footage again, more closely," Grissom explains. "He was able to isolate a partial logo, in one of the frames."

"Let me guess," Greg bitterly hypothesizes, "A 'W'."

Grissom dips his head, once, in reply.

Turning suddenly to face me, Greg points an accusing finger. "You _knew_. You knew, and yet you allowed me to slave away for _hours_. Permanently damaging my perfect vision."

I, in fact, did _not_ know. But feel no inclination to edify Greg. I have no desire to become embroiled in the endless string of practical jokes that he, Nick, Hodges, and occasionally Warrick, engage in. And I suspect Greg's recent aspirations toward the driver's seat to have been crude attempts to reel me in to their juvenile game. _Well, Game Over, Greg_, I think with satisfaction.

"Greg," Grissom redirects his attention. Folding his hands in front of himself while assuming his mentoring air, Grissom advises, "As a CSI, you have to think outside of the box. The most frequently used procedure is not always the most appropriate. Or," gesturing to the photographs of the tread impressions, "The most efficient. Each situation has to be analyzed individually and independently."

"I know," Greg defends, "I just assumed…" He trails off, lowering his head in resignation, "…that…we don't make assumptions."

"Exactly."

Greg nods his understanding, but distinctly mutters, "Benedict Arnold," as he swivels his chair away from me, in a petulant avoidance of my gaze.

Grissom eyes this interaction with curiosity, while Brass remarks, "The search of Franklin's residence _did_ yield a pair of Wolverine work-boots. Size 11. He also is the proud owner of a set of knives, conveniently matching the murder weapon." Following a brief pause, he amends, "Well, a partial set."

Allowing us a few moments to process this information, Grissom then inquires, "Do we have anything connecting Hudson's murder to the abuse of his daughter?"

Everyone turns to me, and I offer a frustrated shake of my head. "Nothing yet. I'm beginning to establish the progression of the abuse, which seems to have followed the typical pattern – emotional, then physical, and, most recently, sexual," I relate, in a detached voice. "I'm hoping to interview Mandy later today, and maybe she'll be able to talk, provide us with something."

The memory of Mandy erupts, unbidden, across my consciousness. Seated on the hospital bed, legs hanging inanimatedly, eyes unfocused. Forlorn, abandoned. Swallowed in the fluorescent lighting. Swallowed in her internal darkness.

Her eternal darkness.

_We, too, can divide ourselves, it's true.  
__But only into flesh and a broken whisper…  
_…_The abyss doesn't divide us.  
__The abyss surrounds us. _((3))

Mentally dispelling the images, I continue, "In reviewing Dennis Hudson's phone records, I've come across two anomalous calls, in the days just before his murder. Both to high schools, one in California, and one in Arizona."

"Mandy's a little young for high school, isn't she?" questions Brass.

"Yeah. She's still in 4th-grade. So, I don't think he was scouting for her. No brochures in the house, no literature. I haven't discovered any commonalities between the two schools – one private, one public; different states, different tiers of academics and athletics. Since it's the weekend, I haven't been able to contact anyone in the administrative offices, but tomorrow…"

Grissom asks, "Aside from Franklin, do we have any other suspects? For either case?"

We universally shake our heads in a negative response.

"I did interview Hudson's co-workers," Brass supplies. "He was, by all accounts, a stand-up guy, loved by everybody. He and Ms. Wiśi-whatsit, apparently, were quite discrete about their relationship. And successfully so, too," the surprise evident in his tone. "Most of their colleagues were completely oblivious to the office romance."

My eyes, involuntarily, traitorously, seek Grissom's. And evidently his subconscious is being similarly rebellious, because our gazes collide, in an electric burst. The typical walls that he hides behind, momentarily as transparent as glass. Flustered by the intensity of that look, I focus blindly on the documents splayed in front of me.

Grissom, rotating his chair to prop one elbow on the table, removes his glasses, allowing them to dangle limply from his hand. Leaving me to wonder if he was affected as I, by our visual dialogue.

Silence accrues in the corners of the room, and I repress the urge to shift in my chair.

Then, with a terse, decisive nod, Grissom finally says, "Okay. Greg, process the boots for trace, and do a comparison between Franklin's knives and the murder weapon. Sara," facing me but avoiding eye contact, "Continue following the paper-trail. Maybe you'll uncover something on Mandy's abuser."

I nod my response, as Greg levers himself from his chair, heading toward the corridor.

"And Greg?" Grissom curtails his exit, handing him a dispatch slip. "Once you've finished processing, there's a B&E in Spring Valley. Take Nick with you, but…you're primary."

An expression of confused delight crosses Greg's face. "But…I thought…with the treads and the video…"

"You're a good CSI, Greg. And your ingenuity _could_ be a genuine advantage, if you learn to apply it appropriately. The promotions for Level II are still several months away. But," turning his chair slightly in my direction, "Someone suggested that you might be ready for advancement by then."

"Thank you," Greg manages to say, around his elated grin. "And _you_?" he pivots to face me, penning me in by grasping both arms of my chair. "I could _kiss_ you right now."

"Keep on dreamin', Romeo," I rebut with an amused smirk.

"Oh…if you only _knew_ my dreams…" he says, suggestively.

Detecting Grissom's arched eyebrow, Greg hastily backtracks. "Umm…I'm gonna go process those boots now," pointing with both thumbs over his shoulder, toward the hallway.

Brass, slapping both palms against the table, announces, "And I suppose that's my cue to have Mr. Franklin brought back in for another little chat."

Grissom deliberately looks at the wall-hanging clock, and Brass flashes a smile of false regret. "Yeah. Pity, that it's nearly one o'clock in the morning." He rhetorically asks, "Do you think he'll be asleep?"

And, not awaiting a reply, Brass wanders to the corridor, removing his cellphone from the breast pocket of his jacket. The hum of his voice is distantly audible, as he directs patrol to bring Franklin in: "_Yes, damnit…aware…the time…just…him in..."_

After the recent banterous exchange, the conference room seems suddenly engulfed in silence. I mentally debate, whether to attempt to remedy my bungled 'thank you' from earlier this evening. Nervously fingering my pen, I dart surreptitious glances at Grissom.

Methodically shuffling through the files in front of him, his hands mesmerize me. Competent, strong. Gentle.

I unconsciously brush my right thumb across my cheek, where Grissom had softly grazed it with his hand.

My rational mind is furiously advising me to stay silent, as such attempts invariably result in embarrassment. After all, I dryly observe, _the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results._ ((4))

But, as usual, my mouth appears disinclined to obey the directives of my brain.

"Grissom?"

He raises an expectant, although hesitant, glance to me.

"In the hallway, before shift...I had just wanted to say tha—"

"Sara?" Brass ducks his head around the doorframe. "Franklin's on his way in. You coming?"

Releasing an inward sigh, I observe Grissom releasing an external one. Though out of relief or frustration, I cannot decipher.

_Yep, insanity._

"Right behind you," I call to Brass.

* * *

((1)) Reference to _The Scarlet Letter_, by Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1850.  
((2)) Reference to _Jane Eyre_, by Charlotte Bronte, 1847. "I mounted into the window-seat: gathering up my feet, I sat cross-legged, like a Turk; and, having drawn the red moreen curtain nearly close, I was shrined in double retirement."  
((3)) Excerpt from the poem _Autotomy_, by Wisława Szymborska.  
((4)) Benjamin Franklin (Also attributed to Albert Einstein, but ol' Ben was around first, so he gets top billing.)

Author's note: My apologies for the delay in updating, and sorry that this chapter was basically a glorified review of the case to-date. I disliked writing it, and am not at all happy with it, but have been fighting with it for far too long. It had to be written, so that I could get to the stuff that I _really_ want to write. Hopefully I was able to inject enough humor to make it worth your while, but still kept things and the characterizations realistic - I feel that such brainstorming review sessions wouldn't be too out of place. Comments and feedback, as always, are loved and appreciated!


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Accompanying Brass toward interrogation in silence, the echoes of our footfalls and the energetic bustle flooding the hallway register absently in my consciousness. Preoccupied with deciphering my recently indecipherable relationship with Grissom, the vagaries of our communication. The impeccably inconvenient timing of fate.

_Who knew that a simple 'thank you' could be so goddamned complicated?_ I wonder, with a slight bitterness.

My eyebrows crinkle in confusion, as my mind summons the memory of our surreal interaction in the garage, earlier this evening, attempting to resolve the irrational juxtaposition of past and present, of drywall and motor oil. Of hands and cheeks.

Of intimate moments and momentary intimations.

This unshakable sensation of unsynchronized déjà vu has plagued me over the previous two days, the impression that I have been re-enacting a play, but through another's eyes. Starring in my own, personalized adaptation of _Being John Malkovich. _Dangling from the ends of a marionette's strings, tumbling from present to past, on the caprice of an invisible puppeteer. And all of my efforts, to resist this stringed manipulation, have only entangled me further in the strands of time, twining _then_ and _now_ into an inseparable weave. ((1))

The exhaustion, of having to unsnarl this temporal knot, of having to maintain the façade of strength. Cordoning my demons from public scrutiny.

Absorbed in the depths of my thoughts, I almost miss Brass' question: "So, good cop? Or bad cop?"

I give my head a minute shake, hoping to detach the marionette's tether, and am on the verge of dryly observing that Franklin's one a.m. wake-up call may preclude _either_ of us from favorable consideration, when I belatedly detect the teasing lilt to his inquiry.

Coming to a halt in the middle of the corridor, Brass extends one hand, resting it gently on my forearm. Bringing me to a stop beside him. His eyes study my face, as he asks, "Sara, you okay?"

My mouth automatically issues an, "I'm fine," as I mentally berate myself for allowing the mask to slip. Feeling the heavy, controlling hand of Geppetto, I am struck by the disconcerting, the discomfiting, awareness that this scene already unfolded, yesterday morning, standing on the Hudson's porch. ((2))

_Or did it?_

"You sure?" Brass persists, not releasing his light grip on my arm. I find myself grateful for the contact, as it grounds me in the present. "You aren't…you know…?" tipping a phantom bottle to his lips.

Forcing a laugh from my throat, I quip, "Damn. I _knew_ I should have brought more cough drops with me."

The dry sarcasm serving as a reflexive defense mechanism. A deflective mechanism.

Sensing my reply to be insufficient, and wanting to circumvent additional probing, I say, reassuringly, "Just a little behind on my sleep. Been pulling a lot of OT lately," flashing a wry grin, before asserting warningly, "And will continue to do so, until we close this case."

After a final glance at me, Brass gives a small nod, dropping his hand to his side.

Wordlessly, we resume our walk down the hallway. A tense awkwardness builds in the space between us. A wall, constructed from bricks of concern, but constructed nonetheless.

_No_, an internal voice contends, _Not 'concern.' Brass is worried about you._

Although despising the barrier forming in the silence, I am helpless to prevent its erection. I recognize that his questions were motivated by concern – _worry _– and his gesture was touching, but… a childhood comprised of failed dependence has led to a lifetime composed of fierce independence.

'_I won't endure these half-filled human masks;  
__better, the puppet. It at least is full.' _((3))

And yet, I cannot help but consider my reaction to Grissom's displays of concern. Occupying the couch in my apartment last year. Two days ago. His silent comfort, conveyed with a simple touch. His ability to penetrate my defensive barriers, with a softly-spoken question, with an unspoken look.

Collapsing walls instead of constructing them.

But, a seemingly unnavigable labyrinth still exists between us…

I rub my forehead in frustration, before realizing that this motion mimics my motion in the garage, elbow propped on the side-view mirror of Franklin's truck. Triggering the mystifying maelstrom of re-living an absurdly familiar scene.

A mirthless huff of amusement escapes my lips, and I sense Brass' sideways gaze, flickering across my face. But he asks nothing, and I venture nothing.

And the wall continues to grow.

We round the corner, to see Franklin, being escorted into one of the interrogation rooms. Arriving at the doorway, Brass reaches an arm around me, grasping the knob and saying, in a caricatured exhibition of chivalry, "Allow me…" Pushing the door open, he adds, "Ladies first."

I hear his apology in the mock-courtly bow of his head, and express my pardon, in my reply: "Ever the gentleman, you are, Mr. Brass."

And, with that, the wall between us dissolves.

With a genuine smile, I cheekily inquire, "Guess this means I get to play bad cop, huh?"

Brass opens his mouth to respond, but the sound of raised voices interrupts his rebuttal:

"_Sir?...Sir! You can't go down there."_

"_Let me go! I need to go with Paul!"_

Quirking a curious eyebrow at me, Brass tosses a, "We'll be with you in just a minute," in Franklin's direction, before letting the door swing closed.

As we approach reception, I observe a wiry, moderately disheveled man, struggling to dislodge the restraining grip of a patrol officer. Judy, from her position behind the front desk, appears distressed by the altercation, and I offer her a comforting smile, which she returns, hesitantly.

With a subtle wave of his hand, Brass instructs the officer to release the man, who immediately rushes toward us.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Brass commands, elevating both hands to chest-level, palms out. The universal sign for 'stop.' "Where's the fire, buddy?"

"I need to go with Paul," he repeats. "With…with him," indicating the room that Franklin disappeared into.

"Sorry," Brass utters, his tone belying the word's connotation. "Private party. Invitation only."

"But…" the man stammers, "I'm his brother."

"While your display of sibling solidarity is _moving_," Brass remarks, "I am, surprisingly, unmoved. We're in the City of Sin, not Brotherly Love. So," gesturing to the chairs in the reception area, "You're welcome to wait here, 'til we finish with your brother." Adding, after a pause, "Although, it could be a very long wait."

And Brass turns, dismissively, taking several strides down the corridor.

"I'm also a lawyer. His lawyer."

Releasing a tired sigh, Brass pivots to face him once again, raising an expectant eyebrow.

He fumbles in his breast pocket, extracting a business card, while issuing a self-introduction: "Andy…Andrew…Franklin." Hastily attaching an, "Attorney at law."

Examining the proffered card, Brass inquires, with faux geniality, "So, Andy, how long ago did you pass the bar?"

"Umm…two months?" he answers, uncertainly, his gaze darting between Brass' and mine.

I trade a restrained grin with Brass, amusedly noting the crooked tie that Andy donned, despite the one o'clock alarm rousing him from sleep.

_Definitely a rookie_, I inwardly comment.

With that thought, however, comes the spark of a long-past memory, of another inexperienced lawyer. A public defender, making his courtroom debut.

_I call…Sara Sidle…to the stand._

Remembering that interminable walk, to the witness stand. The 'click-clack' of the shoes, squeezing my feet in an uncomfortable embrace. The unseen hand, squeezing my chest in a suffocating embrace. Feeling every pair of eyes in the room, boring into my back, my bowed head. My buried thoughts. Longing for my mantle of invisibility, to shield me from the eyes of the world. But the rookie defender had stripped it from my desperate grasp.

My despairing grasp.

"Well…" Brass' voice tugs on the marionette's strings, returning me to the present. Motioning for Andy to precede us into the interrogation room, he says, "Let's get this party started."

* * *

((1)) _Being John Malkovich_, 1999. A film, in which one of the main characters, a puppeteer, discovers a door that acts as a portal into the consciousness of John Malkovich. Anyone entering this door sees the world through Malkovich's eyes, for a brief period of time.  
((2)) Reference to _The Adventures of Pinocchio_, by Carlo Collodi, 1883. Geppetto was the woodcarver who created the famous puppet-turned-boy, Pinocchio.  
((3)) Excerpt from _The Fourth Elegy (_from _Duino Elegies)_, by Rainer Maria Rilke, 1915. (translated by Stephen Mitchell)

Author's note: So, this chapter was originally going to be Franklin's interrogation, which meant another chapter of only dialogue, which I did _not_ want to write. But then my muse threw me this lovely bone, in the form of the opening little introspective scene (which evolved to become the entire chapter), which made me happy and allowed me to hurdle writing the blah-ness of the interrogation. So, I know that it was a little on the short side, but the good news is that the next chapter is basically finished; it just needs a little polish.

I also wanted to repeat my many many thanks, to all of you who have sent reviews and e-mails. Sometimes it's the smallest little thing or suggestion that provides my muse with a much-needed nudge, for which I am _extremely _appreciative. So, again, my thanks. And, to _everyone_ who's been reading, I want to thank all of you as well. I fully realize that events in this story are progressing rather slowly. (Believe me, I share your frustration at times.) But, I _do_ have my reasons, and there really _is_ a point to pretty much every little scene and detail. (I'm quite a fan of threads of continuity. (And parenthetical asides…)) And, don't fear, there _is_ a light at the end of the tunnel for our dear Sara. (And for a certain, much-loved entomologist as well. --grins--) It's still rather dark, where we stand now, but things are moving steadily toward the light, with a few descents back into the shadows along the way. I just ask for your continued patience. (Although, I don't suppose you really have much say in the matter. --sly grin-- Unless my muse gets nudged in the right direction…) Anyway, thanks for reading!


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

"Mr. Franklin…" Brass begins, in a chastising tone, as we enter the interrogation room.

Andy pauses, in the act of pulling out a chair, glancing up guiltily.

"Not _you_," Brass assures, lazily waving for him to sit. "I was referring to your brother here," nodding at Franklin, whose eyes track our movements. "Fine, upstanding citizen that he is."

Circling around the table, I drop into the seat across from Franklin, fixing him with an unwavering stare.

"Mr. Franklin…" repeats Brass, shaking his head chidingly. "I think we need to have a little chat. About honesty." Resting one hand on the back of the lone unoccupied chair, he says, "You see, when people _lie_ to me, it just pisses me off."

"I _didn't_ lie to you," Franklin insists angrily, breaking eye contact with me to glare at Brass.

"Well, I see things differently. And so does the evidence," casually tossing a pile of folders onto the table. They skate across the smooth surface, fanning out like an exposed poker hand.

"What're you _talking_ about?" Franklin demands, leaning forward on one elbow, to peer at the files. Andy extends a tentative hand toward the documents, which he hastily retracts at Brass' deliberate clearing of his throat.

Defensively, Franklin asserts, "I told you, I was never in that house. And, if you have anything proving otherwise, then it was planted."

My lips twitch when I observe Andy noticeably straighten, at the word 'planted.'

_Pavlovian response,_ I speculate with amusement. _Law school trained him well._

"And I'll go to the press about it," Franklin pledges. "I've gotta big mouth."

"No one is disputing the size of your mouth, Mr. Franklin," reassures Brass, as he claims a seat at the table. "Or your willingness to use it."

Gathering the files together into a tidy stack, Brass continues, in a conversational voice, "Let me paint a little picture for you – we have someone, caught on camera…" removing a photograph, a still frame from the surveillance footage, and placing it on the table, "…entering Pendleton Heights, less than thirty minutes before Dennis Hudson was stabbed to death."

I study Franklin's countenance, for any revealing flinches, but it remains carefully blank.

_Of course, _I acknowledge, _A control freak like Franklin would be well-schooled in maintaining an expression of detachment_.

Anger is his Achilles' heel.

"Does that footwear look familiar to you?" Brass rhetorically asks, indicating the slightly blurred image. "Because, we found a pair of boots, in your house…" extracting another photo and setting it beside the first, "…that are an exact match, in both size and style."

"Coincidence," mutters Franklin, slouching back in his chair.

"One thing this job has taught me," Brass reflects philosophically, "Is not to believe in coincidence. These science types," gesturing to me, "Always stress the importance of 'following the evidence.' Well, your boots are being processed as we speak, and it's only a matter of time, before we can physically put you walking through that entrance gate. Unless," he offers, "You'd like to amend your previous statement…?"

"I only went to Hudson's place _one time_," Franklin reiterates. "And, like I told you before, I _drove_."

"Okay," Brass accedes, with a skeptical shrug. "Next," pulling out two more photographs, "There's the matter of the murder weapon."

Franklin looks sharply at Brass.

Positioning the glossy images side-by-side, Brass pushes them across the table toward the brothers. My eyes skim over the first, the bloodied blade already indelibly imprinted on my consciousness. The second, obviously taken during evidence collection, depicts an incomplete set of knives.

"Your family of carving knives there?" Brass taps a finger against the latter photograph. "You seem to have misplaced two of its members."

Thrusting the photo away from himself, Franklin says with frustration, "You'll have to talk to Julia about that."

Brass demands an explanation, through his silence, and I can sense Franklin's anger, amassing internally. Boiling. Broiling.

His incipient loss of control.

Franklin glares at Brass, who returns the glance with an irritating nonchalance.

Expelling a furious burst of air, Franklin yields first: "She's got the other half, okay? When we…split up, we split everything. Equally."

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Brass mildly observes, "Because my math skills are a little rusty, but…a four-two split doesn't exactly strike me as 'equal'."

Andy leans over to whisper in his brother's ear, but Franklin waves him off irritably. "Look," he barks, resting both forearms on the table, "Julia loves cooking. She always had one of those damn cooking shows playing on the TV. And…she was so attached to those fucking knives. So, I…stole one of them."

"Aww," Brass coos, his tone blatantly insincere, "How senti_ment_al of you. You steal a knife, from your ex-girlfriend, as a romantic keepsake. Be still my beating heart," he mocks, raising a dramatic hand to his left breast.

Franklin shifts in his chair, but remains mute.

"Or maybe," hypothesizes Brass, "Julia has nothing to do with these knives. Maybe you left one of them, impaled in the chest of Dennis Hudson, stilling _his_ beating heart."

"No, damnit!" Franklin roars, slamming a fist against the table, causing the splayed photographs to bounce on the formica surface.

His customary self-control shattered, I seek to press our advantage, watching as Andy lays a placating hand on his brother's forearm. Drawing my attention to Franklin's wrist.

His _bare_ wrist.

"Mr. Franklin," I ask, in a deceptively informal tone, "Where's your Rolex?"

He unconsciously covers his left wrist with his right hand. "I…I broke it," he declares, his eyes roaming restlessly, refusing to meet mine.

"Well, isn't that convenient for us," remarks Brass. "And inconvenient for you."

"What d'you mean?" Franklin demands, confusion supplanting anger.

"The knife wasn't the only thing you left behind at the crime scene," Brass informs him, with a smirk. "You left a little piece of your priceless watch, too. A scant two feet from Hudson's body."

Relaxing, Franklin scoffs, "If you found it there," dismissively shaking his hand, "Then it _had_ to have been planted."

Brass says nothing, merely withdraws another photograph from his files and slides it across the table.

Rolling his eyes, Franklin indulgently picks it up, then stares at the image of the broken clasp in disbelief. "That's…that's impossible," he stutters.

"You say 'impossible'," Brass teases, "I say 'evidence'."

But, for the first time since meeting Franklin, a slight doubt invades my mind, as he repeats, "That's impossible," in a soft, self-directed monologue.

_No_, I inwardly dispute, _Everything indicates, implicates, Franklin. Just…wait until the processing is completed. Then we'll have our physical proof._

_But, _a second, quieter, voice challenges, _What about Mandy…_

I suppress my internal argument, vowing to resume the debate later. When not in the midst of an interrogation.

Propping one elbow on the table and resting his chin on his half-curled palm, Brass advises Andy, "This is the point, where you instruct your client," dipping his head at Franklin, "To tell us what he's lying about."

Andy, blushing, lowers his eyes. And then leans toward his brother.

Following a hushed consultation, Franklin admits, with reluctance, "Okay. But…you can't tell Julia…"

"Ha," Brass laughs, without humor. "We're holding all of the cards here, pal. So spill."

Releasing a deep sigh, appearing almost – _Ashamed?_ my mind supplies – Franklin confesses, "I didn't break the watch. I…I sold it."

"You sold it," echoes Brass, disbelief creeping into his voice. "So, you're sentimentally nostalgic over a set of ordinary kitchen knives, but a romantic gift like a Rolex is…what? Disposable income?"

"Damnit!" Franklin's anger surges forth once more. "I didn't _want_ to, but I needed the cash. I was desperate," running a hand through his hair. "So, I pawned it off."

"Ahh. The plot thickens," Brass responds sarcastically. "You wouldn't happen to still have that claim ticket, would you? Or, by any chance, remember the _location_ of this pawn shop?"

"It…wasn't exactly a pawn shop," he equivocates. "It was more like…some guy on the street corner."

"'Course it was," hums Brass, in ersatz agreement. "Because, heaven forbid that you actually have a verifiable alibi." After a pause of a few seconds, he states presumptively, "This 'guy' doesn't have a name, I'm sure."

"Johnny? Or Joey? Maybe it was Tim?"

"Right." Looking toward Andy, Brass suggests, "You might also want to advise your client to work on improving his memory." Turning back to Franklin, he asks, "I don't suppose you managed to recall the name of that mythical 'bar' either, that you purportedly visited Thursday night, after casing Hudson's house?"

Franklin shrugs defensively.

"Didn't think so."

A brief silence settles into the room, before Franklin summons his brother closer with a jerk of his head.

_Just another illustration of his controlling personality, _I note, _Making people come to him._

The brothers engage in a lengthy, whispered conversation, before Andy awkwardly begins, "Look, Paul…my client…" he corrects himself, "…has been _more_ than accommodating. He's answered all of your questions. Without complaint, I might add," clearing his throat self-consciously, "Especially considering that we…he…was brought here in the middle of the night."

I feel as if I am listening to the dialogue from some made-for-television courtroom drama. And wonder, idly, how many episodes of _Law and Order_ Andy watched, before passing the bar.

Glancing questioningly at his brother, Andy continues, "My bro…client has already confessed to trespassing on the Hudson's property. He will accept the charges, of a _misdemeanor_," he emphasizes, "And will pay the fine without contention. But, if this is all you have?" he indicates the photographs decorating the table, "Then, you don't have a case against us…him…my client."

"I'm impressed," Brass says to Andy, "You strung together multiple sentences there. Although, your closing could use a little more polish…" He adds, "I'll concede, that the case against your client may not be firmly established. Yet."

Franklin reclines against the back of his chair, folding his arms across his chest, smiling smugly.

"However," Brass pronounces, holding up a cautionary hand, "We _do_ have enough evidence on which to arrest him. So…" looking at the mirrored window, he gestures with a beckoning index finger.

Within moments, a patrol officer enters the room.

"Read Mr. Franklin here his rights," instructs Brass.

* * *

Sitting in the mostly-vacated interrogation room, Brass sweeps the splayed photos into a messy pile, remarking, "I hate to admit it, but you guys _do _need to produce some physical evidence, linking Franklin to the murder. Because," jerking his chin at the door that Franklin and Andy just exited through, under police escort, "Tweedle-Dum-ass and his lawyerly brother are right – everything we have so far is circumstantial. And, despite the implausibility of his explanations _and_ his inability to produce a solid alibi, there's still a helluva lot of reasonable doubt."

Sighing tiredly, Brass warns, "We can hold him for 72 hours, but," shaking his head, "We can't file an official case against him. Not on what we've got so far."

"I know," I reply, nodding. "Hopefully, Greg's finished processing the boots and those knives by now. And as for the rest? I'm working on it."

The images of Dennis Hudson's body, of my father's body, prone on the bed, strobe across my consciousness. And I repeat, softly, to myself, "Believe me, I'm working on it."

"Well, then, I don't have to worry." At my confused glance, Brass clarifies, "If _you_'re on his tail, then he's as good as caught."

Offering a rueful smile, I murmur, "There are some that got away." _Too many_, I think.

"Don't tell me _you_ have a trout-shaped corkboard too?" Brass asks, with a trace of exasperation.

Smirking slightly at the reference, memories of conversations about chasing white hares and falling into holes swirl through my mind. "Nah," I say, coming to my feet, "I have a warren of rabbits."

Brass looks confused, but says nothing as he levers himself from his chair. As we leave the room, I hear him muttering under his breath, "Freak…science geeks… never understand 'em…"


	26. Chapter 26

Author's note: My sincerest apologies, for how long it took for me to offer an update. And apologies in advance, for it being such a short offering. Progress is on the horizon, however, so hopefully I won't be quite so delinquent in the future. Once again, this chapter was an unexpected delivery-by-stork from my muse, a brief deviation from the casefile. Hope you enjoy!

And Geekyfrog, a thousand thanks for the sanity check, the beta work, and the lexical license. All of it was much needed and even more appreciated.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter 26**

"_Freak…science geeks…never understand 'em…"_

Ignoring Brass' grumbled utterance as we pass from the interrogation room into the corridor, I inform him of my intention to check with Greg, on the status of the evidence from Franklin's house. Hoping that he uncovered _some_thing incriminating our sole suspect. "And," I add, "I'll let Grissom know that Franklin is now in custody."

Brass nods his agreement, advising, "Be sure to remind him that it's only a 72-hour sentence. With a ticking clock."

I cast him a withering glare as we walk toward reception. To which Brass replies, one hand aloft in a placating gesture, "Right. You don't need me telling you that."

At the continued arch of my eyebrow, he amends, "And neither does Gil."

"Damn right," I state, flashing a quick grin.

"Although," equivocates Brass, "There _are_ a few things he needs to be told…"

Shooting a sidelong glance at his suggestive tone, I catch his knowing look in response. Knowing exactly what he refers to.

Grissom. Me. And the non-relationship of our relationship. I force myself to maintain an even stride and a casual expression.

The chemistry between us, sometimes simmering near reactivity, oftentimes paralytically inert, is the proverbial pink elephant of the Las Vegas Crime Lab. An unspoken yet universally acknowledged truth. Sure, I received some good-natured jibes from Nick and Warrick, over the entomological text. And Greg ribbed me mercilessly for a shift and a half, upon his discovery of the plant. _That damn plant_, I smile in amused aggravation, remembering the abrupt cessation of Greg's teasing, when his cd of The Cure vanished. Mysteriously.

Catherine, over the years, has directed uncountable looks at me, laden with significance and feminine intuition. And Brass continues to fumble through his clumsy inquiries into my health and general rate of alcohol consumption.

But, somehow, the hulking pachyderm in the corner is always implausibly, impossibly, ignored, never explicitly mentioned or discussed. Certainly not by Grissom or myself, excepting a few monumentally awkward declarations on my part, and his rapiered repartees, swathed in layers of entendre and innuendo. Words are his sword, and silence his shield.

Our verbal cloak-and-dagger jousts, accompanying our non-verbal visual duels, build a tensile intensity between us, volatile, combustible. Unresolved.

Unsolved.

_Are we foils to one another?_ I wonder. _Or merely fools?_

My verbal faux pas, coupled with Grissom's _lack_ of verbosity, had left us roiling in an undefinable, indefinite stasis. More than colleagues but less than friends. In the past year and a half, however, things have…evolved. Changed, without changing. Events sparking fluctuations in the biochemical reaction between us, upsetting then re-establishing our fluid, dynamic equilibrium:

Grissom's achingly earnest confession, that I witnessed through the looking glass.

My colossal stupidity, in combining angry misery, alcohol, and my Prius. His non-judgmental escort and acceptance.

The revelations of my childhood. His silent comfort.

The incisive innuendos and sparring gazes increasing in frequency, but remaining blanketed under a cover of mutual silence. Change, without changing.

Or, perhaps, _growth_...without change.

All serving to leave me even more uncertain as to our status, becoming contradictorily _less_ than colleagues, but more than friends.

_Our relationship is nothing_, I think wryly, _if not defined by conundrums and convolutions._

And, within the last few days, it seems as if the slumbering elephant in the corner has been prodded into a lumbering wakefulness. Nothing being said overtly, but what remains unsaid in the silences speaking volumes.

The ubiquitous propinquity existing between us has nothing to do with space, and everything to do with distance.

Shaking my head distractedly, I realize that my silence has extended into a revealing interval, Brass' knowing look having morphed into a devious smirk. He relents, however, under my unyielding stare.

"That damn straw hat of his," Brass revises his intended inquisition. "Makes him look like Farmer Bob. It's ridiculous, and somebody needs to tell him that."

"I find it," I say, grateful for the reprieve, "Eminently practical." That it also imbues Grissom with an air of boyish artlessness is none of Brass' concern.

"You would," mutters Brass.

Although tempted to rebut his claim, I feel that it might provoke the already-irritable elephant into a stampeding evacuation of its habitual corner. And I'm rather accustomed to its stolid, rose-tinted presence.

_Hell_, I reflect, _if Dumbo ever _did_ take flight, I…I don't know _how_ I'd react._ The prospect of a pachydermal confrontation is, simultaneously, exhilarating and terrifying.

Of course, the Vegas bookies aren't exactly taking odds on Grissom figuring it out in the foreseeable future.

_But_, a satanically hopeful voice supplies_, he_ has_ been there, the past few days…_

A branch in the corridor offers a conveniently-timed escape, from my perilously perspicacious thoughts. "Well, I'm off to find Greg," I declare. "As you said, the clock on Franklin is ticking…"

Brass nods distractedly as his eyes, fixing on a point further down the hallway, narrow in concentration. "Or…" his footsteps falter, "…maybe not."

Backtracking a few steps, I follow his gaze, to see Franklin indolently slouched in one of the chairs in reception.


	27. Chapter 27

Author's notes: Once again, sorry for the delay. In my defense, it wasn't (quite) as long as last time. And it's a longer offering. My thanks to all of you who are still reading, sticking with this story despite my delays. Your comments, as always, mean so much to me.

And Geekyfrog, heartfelt thanks again, for keeping me sane, honest, and laughing as I worked through this chapter.

**Chapter 27**

In disbelieving silence, Brass and I stare at the incongruous presence of Franklin in reception, the ticking clock of his sentence arrested mid-beat, suspended in a temporal stasis. His lounging repose dispels my errant thoughts of elephants and eloquence, restoring my focus to the case with a suffocating immediacy.

"Oh, for Pete's…" Brass chuffs in frustration, thrusting the stack of files and photographs from the recent interrogation at me. Striding rapidly down the corridor, the reverberations of his footfalls sound the resurrected pulse of time. I follow at a more moderate pace, nodding in greeting to Judy as he calls out an authoritative, though exasperated, "Peters!"

The young patrol cop, who I recognize as the escort from Mandy's hospital room, pivots to face us at the mention of his name. Spying Brass, he snaps to attention, squaring his shoulders while stuttering, "Uh…Captain…Detective …Sir!"

I half-expect him to execute a crisp salute, in his nervous deference, and amusement tugs at the edges of my mouth. But, as my gaze slides over to Franklin and takes in the derisive smirk that he wears, my slowly assembling smile collapses.

Distantly, my mind processes Peters' halting description of a brawl off of the Strip, leading to a log-jam in booking. Remotely, I register Brass' sarcastic, "So, you thought you'd just incarcerate him here, then? In the lobby of the Crime Lab?" and the rookie's shuffling examination of his feet in response.

My principal interest, however, is invested in Franklin. Leaning against the front desk, I watch him, as he watches the ongoing exchange with a smug superciliousness. Outwardly, he is the epitome of arrogant indifference, maintaining an exaggerated expression of apathy, a deliberately relaxed pose. The placement of his hands, folded casually across his lap, almost manages to disguise the restraining bracelets adorning his wrists.

Almost.

I attempt to recall the precise phrasing of the adage, concerning the guilty man sleeping soundly, while the innocent suffers insomnia. But the words remain a tangled jumble in my mind.

_Grissom would know_, a puckish voice supplies. And I suppress a groan. _Grissom…_

I hastily uproot the thought, before it can germinate. Not needing an additional distraction at the moment. Especially a hopelessly labyrinthine one.

But, even as I contemplate the proverbial surety of Franklin's guilt, his body language belies his demeanor of superficial nonchalance. I detect the forced relaxation of his posture, the mantle of tension decorating his shoulders. The glimmer of fear glinting along the edges of his haughty stare.

Absently thumbing through the files in my hand, my fingers hesitate on the image of the Rolex fragment, remembering Franklin's reaction when confronted with this photographic evidence – genuine shock. Not an act, not an assumed face. His mask of control momentarily slipping, to reveal his true concern.

My doubts resurface in a resurgent flood of unanswered questions, inconclusive circumstances, and instinctual impressions. Mercilessly shadowed by the soulful, the soul-_less_, gaze of a little girl, despairing in its haunting emptiness.

Sighing, I allow my eyes to slide closed, feeling the headache building against my temples, drumming across my consciousness in a percussive crescendo. The realization strikes that I have yet to indulge in any of my customary infusions of coffee this shift. _Today is _**not**_ the day to go cold-turkey on caffeine_, I dryly reflect, and mentally amend my itinerary to include a stop in the breakroom before tracking down Greg.

I hear a muted 'whoosh' and the accompanying change in air pressure that indicate the opening of the entrance door to the lab. Assuming it to be Peters' partner, I ignore the sensory intrusion. The curtains of my eyelids remain drawn, as I enjoy a few heartbeats of calm before facing the maelstrom of the case and the swirling cacophony of my suspicions once more. Resting in the eye of the hurricane…

Until Julia Wiśniewski's voice permeates the suddenly pressurized stillness:

"Paul." The lone word is softly released, unsure. Questioning.

Unshuttering my eyes, I see her, standing frozen in the entryway, a reverse silhouette against a backdrop of the Vegas night sky. Her hand grips the handle of the door in a desperate, grounding grasp, her confused gaze morphing into one of steeled comprehension. Of stolen innocence.

I straighten against the desk, preparing to issue an explanation, a distraction, when she repeats, "Paul." The venom in her tone unmistakable, crackling through the electrostatically-charged air with a crystalline precision.

"Julia!" Franklin springs to his feet, hands struggling to escape their metallic nooses in an attempt to reach out to her.

An immobilized bystander to the scene enacted afore me, I look on as she strides purposefully into the room. Eliminating the distance between herself and her former lover with impossible rapidity, she barely pauses before lifting her right hand.

Slapping him forcefully across the cheek.

Like a gunshot, the sharp 'smack' ricochets against the walls of silence, echoing down the corridor of my childhood with thunderous vibrations. Involuntarily, I flinch, fleeing the memory of that sound.

Franklin stands, stunned, a hand-shaped blossom of red blooming across his skin with finger-length petals. The muscles of my face twitch, from the remembered sting of my parents' conversations, held with so much more than words. The artificial blush that often dusted the apple of my mother's cheek, applied by my father's artistic brush-stroke. His backstroke. Humorlessly, I smile at the dark appropriateness of the metaphorical fruit – red and whole on the surface, bruised and battered in its core.

"You…monster…" Julia hisses, viperous. "How could… bastard…"

Under her inchoate onslaught, Franklin remains motionless. Brass and Peters are similarly statuesque.

A captive audience to her dramaturgical ire.

Her hand, raised to deliver a second blow, galvanizes our inert limbs into motility. Peters grabs her forearm, checking its violent arc, while Brass roughly shoves Franklin on the left shoulder, forcing him off-balance, staggering backward into a chair.

"Get him outta here," Brass growls at the rookie, jerking his chin irritably at the now-seated suspect.

Peters hastens to comply, tugging Franklin upright and directing him out of the lab with encouraging nudges to the square of the back. Their departing figures are swiftly swallowed by the blackness of the night.

As the door swings closed on its compression hinges, slowly reestablishing the boundary between light and dark, the atmosphere of tension saturating the lobby dissipates. Glancing at Julia, her anger deflates almost as immediately as it flared, punctured by the grim needle of truth.

Consumed by the inescapable surge of reality and a tidal swell of sorrow, she crumbles in front of me. I instinctively reach out, hands cradling her elbows. She falls into me, wrapping her arms around my frame as she chokes on her anguish. Distinctly discomfited by this invasion of my personal space, I nevertheless cannot deny her the solicitude of a physical connection. A palpable consolation.

All too often, grief has victimized me in isolation.

In searing, blinding bursts, memories assault me…

Memories of nights spent curled, fetally, hugging in the tormented emotion threatening to erupt, stretching my skin with its tempered fury in its quest for an outlet. Burrowing under the blankets, seeking to hide from the demons of my past. Sweating in a cold fever, as the nightmares chase me out of slumber and into wakefulness.

Memories of a goaded confrontation with the black ghosts of my childhood. And… an outstretched hand, rescuing me from drowning in the rapids of desolation, halving my agony by sharing it. The comfort drawn from that simple touch an unfathomable mass.

Memories of the healing catharsis, two nights past, being held in a silent, solid embrace as the tears poured forth from the breached reservoir of my soul.

And so, I allow Julia her collapse. Gently guiding her toward one of the glass-walled visiting rooms, feeling intensely, ineptly, awkward at the foreign gesture. I wonder that Grissom was able to penetrate _his_ typical blockades, in reaching out to console me. Reaching across his buffering sphere of seclusion. Buffering me from the torrent of my tortured release.

And then, I wonder at his ability to infiltrate my thoughts, so effortlessly, so relentlessly.

So completely.

As if impishly summoned by Hermes, I look up to find Grissom on the other side of the windowed-wall. Studying me with an expression of confusion and mild alarm creasing his brow. I wave off his concern with a subtle shake of my head.

_Great_, I irreverently muse, _Grissom's already questioning my objectivity in this case, my emotional involvement. And now I'm on public display in a glass cage, juggling an armful of distraught, weeping femininity. Perfect._

Despite my desire to escape the exhibitionism of the situation, our gazes remain locked in a visual communion. The magnetism of which disrupts my equilibrium, leaving my stomach queerily tremulous. I feel, in that moment, a recalibration in the balance of our relationship, an exchange of… Trust? Truce?

Truth?

Seeking to identify this unknown element, I shift my weight, unconsciously leaning forward. Toward him. The adjusted angle, however, causes the fluorescent light to reflect off of the paned membrane separating us, and I blink, severing the frisson of electric current coursing from his eyes to mine.

The symbolism of the omnipresent barrier between us, stubbornly opaque even when as transparent as glass, is painfully obvious.

Obviously painful.

Any further dissection of these thoughts is supplanted, when Julia emits a hoarse sob, stumbling against me. I glance down at the diminutive woman beside me, surprised to discover my arm, protectively and supportively wrapped around her shoulders.

_Well_, I self-ridicule, _no wonder Grissom was staring at me like some fascinating insect specimen…_

Dropping my enfolding arm to Julia's lower back, I coax her wordlessly toward one of the chairs. She docilely obeys my signaling pressure but, as I withdraw my hand, traps it between both of hers, fiercely. Desperately.

Remembering _my_ white-knuckled grasp, in adolescence and adulthood, I simply hold on.

And squeeze back.

When I raise my eyes to peer through the divining looking-glass once again, the corridor stands empty, Grissom no more than a ghostly simulacrum burned on my retinas.


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer** (because it's been awhile...) I make no claim of ownership to the characters contained below. They are the property of CBS, Jerry Bruckheimer, and various other corporate bigwigs, of whom I am assuredly not.

**Author's note**: A thousand apologies of the deepest profusion, for my _appallingly_ lengthy hiatus. (Six months? Really? –hangs head in shame–) Special, warm thanks to those of you who have sent encouragement by way of e-mails, reviews, smoke signals, and telepathic badgering – Your subtle (and, at times, not-so-subtle) nudges have prodded my muse into a lumbering, if reluctant, wakefulness. Although my life hasn't exactly regained a semblance of normalcy (or a measure of stability), I _do_ hope to find more time to write. No guarantees, but I'll try and try hard.

Since it _has_ been so long since my last update, here's a brief summary of the case-to-date – Sara was called out to investigate a homicide in Henderson two nights ago. A man, Dennis Hudson, was stabbed to death in his bedroom, and his body was found by his 10-year-old daughter, Mandy. The details of the case have triggered flashbacks to Sara's own childhood that she struggles to suppress. Without much success. The primary suspect, Paul Franklin, is being held for the murder, although Sara has doubts concerning his guilt and the physical evidence is largely nonexistent. And all the while, Grissom is being typically Grissom. I have nothing more to say on that subject… yet. –winks– (Just a reminder – this story is set mid-season 6 (ie, pre-canon GSR). So, Grissom and Sara aren't "Grissom and Sara"… yet. –grins–)

If you're looking for a slightly more comprehensive summary but aren't inclined to re-read the entire story, I'd recommend skimming Chapter 23, which contains a round-table discussion of the case, the key characters involved, the key evidence, etc. (I am, however, inordinately fond of threads of continuity, both small and large. So, I tend to make a lot of references, overt and otherwise, to details from earlier chapters. Not necessarily crucial to the plotline, but important in weaving the tenor of the story, in my opinion.)

Currently, Sara is seated in one of the visiting rooms of the lab, comforting a distraught Julia Wiśniewski, who happens to be the former lover of Franklin and the current lover of Hudson. Oh, what tangled webs we weave. And now, on with the story…

**

* * *

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**Chapter 28**

As Julia Wiśniewski's strangled sobs fill the glass chamber of the visiting room, my right hand remains tethered between both of hers, tethering her from the black waves of grief unleashed by her confrontation with Franklin. Our linked palms bridging her present anguish to my past, my discomfiture resurfaces, leaving me unsure of what comfort I can offer her. What I _should_ offer. Although meeting only yesterday, I detected an immediate connection, an instantaneous recognition. An unspoken understanding, flickering between us. And yet…

_Yet she is part of an active murder investigation_, a decade of forensics training reminds me, demanding distance.

Detachment seems an impossible directive, however, considering how inextricably this case and its supporting cast are twined around the ebon trellis of my past. Tilling soil long-poisoned by toxic memories, germinating insidious new growth amongst the withered stalks of my childhood. A perfidious vine of lies and truth, light and dark. Life and death.

_The force that through the green fuse drives the flower  
__Drives my green age…  
__Drives my red blood…_ ((1))

The ebbing pulse of my father's mortality, that night as he laid there, splayed there, saturating the fields of my future along with the bedsheets in a crimson tide. Soiling everything that takes root.

Nature's bitter satire, that the oxygen-producing chlorophyll of plants and the oxygen-bearing hemoglobin of blood are differentiated by a single atom, a sole element. An element of soul.

The difference between magnesium and iron.

Absurdly, I recall that Grissom's father was a botanist, sketching pistils and stamens amidst scribbled notes of petals and sepals. Juxtaposed against _my_ father's intimate knowledge of blood, drawing the scarlet corpuscles on a canvas of skin. Drawing them _from_ a canvas of skin.

_As if too-intimate knowledge of any interior were necessarily harmful knowledge…_

A gentle scholar of floral intricacies. A brutal artist of corporeal fragilities.

Magnesium. Iron.

Ironic, the magnetism that sparks between Grissom and myself…

Julia's grip tightens painfully over mine, lifting me from the desolate desperation of my thoughts, and I glance down at our intertwined hands. A study in contrast. Hers – diminutive, delicate. Dainty. Reflecting her editorial position at the publishing house. Mine, in physical polarity – long, angular. Calloused. Hardened from handling the broken pieces of shattered lives. Never managing to piece together the scattered splinters of my own.

…_were knowledge that can never be washed off._ ((2))

This case, gusting through the cracks of my fractured psyche with a vicious ferocity, dusting off memories shelved in cobwebbed corners of my consciousness, has awakened demons from a two-decade hibernation. My resolve, to solve this crime, to recapture the fugitive fiends and banish the ghosts haunting my inner hallways, is spiraling into an overwhelming obsession, an all-consuming compulsion. Having nothing to do, Grissom's insinuations aside, with my lack of diversions. No longer feeling that I am chasing the rabbits in this hunt, I rather suspect that the march hare and his entire mad entourage are now in rapid pursuit of me. In rabid pursuit.

_And we, too, had a relationship—  
__Tight wires between us,  
__Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring  
__Sliding shut on some quick thing,  
__The constriction killing me also._ ((3))

Seeking to divert the perilous path of my straying thoughts, I gently disentangle my hand from Julia's ensnaring grasp. Temporarily leaving the room, I retrieve a box of tissues and a glass of water, placing the items on the table in front of her. Grateful, she tenders me a tremulous smile, extracting two of the pliant sheets with a whispered _whish… whish…_

As she dries her tear-dampened cheeks, I dip my head once in acknowledgement, then turn toward the exit again. Ostensibly, to allow the storm of her sorrow to rage in solitude. But knowing that the surge of _my_ torment, both present and past, stands too near a volatile, volcanic eruption, the bottled emotion only tenuously corked. Within me, the pressurized environment generates flakes of obsidian, which lacerate my soul.

This room, despite its transparent walls, possesses an opposing pallor of shadow, a surreal tenebrism of funereal illumination. Of dark enlightenment. I sense, lurking in the unshaded corners, a black secret, bleak with foreboding. Whether it carries a revelation of two days or two decades, I long to flee its sinister truth.

But before I can cross the metastatic threshold, before I can pass through the looking-glass portal, Julia's voice filters across the evanescent gloom, the sound waves virtually visible in the leaden density of the air:

"So, you… you've arrested him? Paul?" Her resigned tone belies the necessity of a response.

Escape curtailed, my hand falls from the door handle, knotting into an involuntary fist at my side. Bowing my head with a suppressed sigh, I step back into the room, facing her. And feel the door closing mutely behind me. Latching with an inaudible _click._

Sealing us in our glass prison with a deafening finality.

I am reminded, vividly, of being trapped in such a cell, one year since. A porcelain knife pressing against my carotid, caressing my pulse. Piercing my soul.

Reminded of being held by the arms of one man, and the eyes of another. An anchor of damnation, and a buoy of salvation. The latter always out of reach.

Reminded of glimpsing the panic unbridled in those blue eyes unveiled, a window into the cerulean wells normally curtained. His terror mirroring mine.

_Oh dear God…_

With a wall of silica, forever separating us.

_Open the door…_

My gaze dances, reflexively, to the corridor where Grissom recently stood. Filled with empty space, negative space. Spatial negativity.

_Please… open the door…_

The ghost of potentiality.

I close my eyes as a soft breath seeps from my lungs. Resisting the impulse to bring my hand to my neck, I swallow with deliberate intent, forcing the memories past the phantom pressure at my throat.

Following a self-constructive moment, I look toward Julia, who holds a slightly quizzical expression in her return glance. Remembering her question concerning Franklin's arrest, I nod in unnecessary confirmation. She lowers her head with a remorseful smile, staring blindly at her fingers as they tease the edges of the tissues lying crumpled in her lap.

"I just didn't believe… _couldn't_ believe… that Paul was capable… that he could…" She trails off, unable to bear the thought to its inevitable conclusion.

Saying nothing, I walk over to stand behind the chair adjacent to hers, resting one forearm lightly across its back.

"Wh… What happens now?" she asks, defeated. Still studious in her examination of her hands, systematically reducing the tissues to a pile of cottony shreds.

I open my mouth to respond with the formulaic, "It's an ongoing investigation…" but she abruptly interrupts, "No. Wait. Are you sure?" Her pained gaze becomes plaintive as it rises to meet mine. "_Sure_ that Paul killed Den—" she chokes on the name. "That Paul did… this?" gesturing with an open palm, attempting to encompass the enormity of the tragedy enacted over the last several days.

My left hand curls around the metal frame of the chair, fingernails carving depressed crescents into the pleather backing as her haltingly-uttered words stir the simmering coals of my suspicions.

_No_, my instincts sound in silent chorus. _No, I'm not sure._

The doubts that I harbor regarding Franklin's guilt ignite, the iron-hot flames of a magnesium flare scorching the fringe of my consciousness in a blaze of discrepancies:

His insistent avowal of never having entered the Hudson residence, and our lack of definitive proof to contradict that claim.

His sincere reaction of confusion and concern, when presented with the Rolex fragment recovered from the master bedroom.

His battered truck _departing_ the gated community, less than an hour _before_ Dennis was murdered.

_But_, challenges the voice of reason, _if Franklin is innocent, then… Who?_

Stabbings are messy, personal. Intimate. As well I know. And our pool of suspects rivals the measure of physical evidence in depth – dishearteningly shallow. An aggrieved sigh escapes my lips. The thought of this case becoming a permanent fixture on Grissom's ichthyological corkboard twists like a knife in my soul.

Twists the knife already in my soul.

_Who…?_ I implore, in voiceless plea.

The echo returns across the span of two decades, improbably louder, **_Why…?_**

Dueling in a dissonant duet, the questions reverberate through the clouded chasm of my mind, unanswered.

_Unanswerable…_ whispers my unspoken fear.

My eyes seize Julia's briefly, exchanging a nascent glint of awareness. Her head drops into the cradle of her hands, however, extinguishing the ember before comprehension kindles. But the dark secret, prowling in the illumined shadows along the perimeter of the room, tickles my peripheral cortex as it steals inward. Toward discovery.

I resolutely ignore it.

Through tortuous lessons over the last five years, I have acquired extensive experience in and exposure to the practices of avoidance and denial. Of intentional ignorance. Learning that pink elephants remain less hostile when left unprodded, unprompted. Unprovoked.

Grissom taught me well.

Scanning the chamber in search of distraction, my roaming glance is arrested by the files from Franklin's interrogation, sitting on the table in an orderly stack. Causing me to wonder, momentarily, at their stolid presence in the room. Until I recall that the documents were still in hand, during my fumbling escort of Julia, from reception to our glass-walled berth.

Balanced against the chaotic array of my thoughts, the precisely-arranged folders occupy the heart of the table like an evidentiary centerpiece, a textual masterpiece. A contextual mystery, mocking me with the host of inconclusive uncertainties residing in its manila embrace. The indefinite circumstances, the infinite questions. The unavoidable anguish, of reliving my tortured past through the scarlet-stained lens of another's present. Bleeding from invisible scars, improperly healed. That no bandage can bind.

_That no bandage **has** bound… yet_, I amend, as the specter of a caress brushes against my lower back, a solid shoulder phantomly absorbs my tears. A remembered warmth envelopes my hand, pulling the edges of the wounds closed, applying temporary sutures to the raw gash of freshly-exhumed memories. Commuting torment with tenderness, pain with compassion. Agony with empathy.

But the present absence of those touches exhales a glacial breath across the landscape of my psyche, scaling a chill down my vertebral ladder to pool in an icy mass at the base of my spine. Numbing the residual heat imbued by his palm.

Shivering to dispel my internal winter, I stare at the immutable files, mentally shuffling through their contents. Which remain intractably taciturn. As the words and images flicker on the screen of my consciousness like the stuttering reel of a silent film, framed snapshots from my youth encroach, inexorably, into my field of view. Waging a stereoscopic war against time. With the choired queries of _who's_ and _why's_, accented by guilt-laden _what if's_ in a warbling adolescent alto, chiming an atonal soundtrack of battle cries.

_I'm beginning to know myself. I don't exist.  
__I'm the space between what I'd like to be and what others made of me.  
__Or half that space, because there's life there too.  
__So that's what I finally am…_

The unmentionable horrors of my childhood, inequitably adopted by Mandy Hudson.

The macabre setting of my parents' bedroom, so permanently branded on my brain. Merging with the gruesome stage of the recent crime scene, so indelibly etched on hers.

The etiolated corpse of her father, wearing the anemic visage of mine. With rose petals of blood dotting the shrouding sheet in a façade of love, a charade of romanticism. A parade of fallacies.

_Turn off the light, shut the door, and get rid of the slipper noise in the hallway.  
__Leave me alone in my room with the vast peace of myself.  
__It's a shoddy universe._ ((4))

Temporal boundaries blur, fusing _then_ and _now_ into an uninhabitable, nonexistent era. Photographs of two days synthesizing with those aged two decades.

_Photo…_

…_synthesis…_

Sliding into focus with an audible _snap_, my double vision rectifies as time's dimensions realign into a sequential chronology. The discordant chord of incessant questions reaching a melodic resolution, I realize Julia's potential to provide conclusion to the uncertainties, definition to the circumstances. Finite answers to the infinite unknowns.

The frame of the chair bites into my abdomen as I lean eagerly forward, rifling through the sheaves of the files. Plucking the desired bloom from the paper bouquet and passing it to Julia, I ask in a tautly reined voice, "Do you recognize these?"

Although startled by the visual and verbal intrusions into her empty reverie, she instinctively closes her hand around my proffering, releasing a flurry of shredded tissues that drift to the tabletop in cottony snowflakes. The minced fabric of her tears.

I draw the chair out to sit beside her, its legs scraping against the linoleum tiles of the floor. Grating. But she remains insensible to the noise, in her scrutiny of the glossy image. A furrow creasing her forehead, she appears on the verge of a negative reply, when identification strikes. "Nn—Ye-ess." Her slow nod becoming decisive, she repeats, "Yes. They look like the knives that Paul gave me. Not long after we began living together."

As she traces over the photograph with a lone finger, her sad smile carries a whisper of nostalgia. "Quite a surprise, actually, because Paul wasn't big on romantic gestures. On _any_ gestures." She expels a muted puff of air in a bittersweet laugh. "He invited me to move in with him by tossing me his keys one morning, grumbling at me to 'make a damn copy' for myself, so I'd stop pestering him with the doorbell." Her gaze softening, she adds quietly, "The antithesis of when Denny gave me a key…"

This gentle admission prickles my subconscious with an elusive misgiving, but before I can isolate its source, Julia shakes off the memory with a sharp jerk of her head. In a tone of exasperated fondness, she resumes, "That was just Paul's way. Not demonstrative but…" Her mouth curves into a rueful smirk as she raises her eyes, surveying mine for understanding. "You're familiar with the type? Shows little emotion. _Says_ even less. Stringing you along from one miniscule morsel of affection to the next. Like Hansel and Gretel's trail of breadcrumbs. _After_ the crows have snacked."

I refrain, with difficulty, from parroting my absolute concurrence. From vocalizing the pathetically sparse scraps of encouragement that have sustained me in Vegas for half a decade:

A handful of conceivably-more-than-casual touches.

A smattering of smoldering glances, invariably doused before inflaming.

A cryptically blatant comment on beauty.

_Yeah. Pathetic._

No wonder Hansel and his sister ended up lost. Compared to a bamboo plant and a book about bugs, cutlery and a housekey practically constitute a marriage proposal.

_Hell_, I snidely muse, _if Grissom ever gave me tools for restoring classic cars, I'd pick a china pattern that afternoon…_

Aware that pursuing this thread of thought will yield only an infuriating tangle, I stifle my self-derisive acerbity and refocus my attention on Julia's subdued reminiscences:

"…knowing my passion for cooking, Paul's gift was genuinely thoughtful. Unexpected," she emphasizes, "And uncharacteristic. But certainly not unappreciated." Her eyes trained once again on the photograph, her mind tracking ghosts of the past, she asks herself in an absent undertone, "I wonder what happened to them?"

I nurture a guarded ember of optimism at her preoccupied query, which seemingly contradicts Franklin's statement in interrogation, that _she's got the other half… when we split up, we split everything…_

If he obtained the _entire_ set of knives in the fallout surrounding their separation, then the pair currently missing from his kitchen could implicate…

Maintaining a purposefully neutral expression, I inquire with a forced casualness, "Do you remember who got the knives, when your relationship with Mr. Franklin ended?"

"Oh," she visibly starts, reeled back into the present along the line of my question. After pausing in contemplation, she answers, "Paul, I suppose."

A fiery thrill electrifies my spine, searing my cerebrum in an explosive burst. The irradiating satisfaction of trapping Franklin in a lie.

_It's only another layer of circumstantial evidence_, cautions a practical voice – remarkably akin to Grissom's, I observe – attempting to damper my enthusiasm. I resist the counsel of prudent skepticism, insisting that Franklin can be buried underneath a mound of incriminating evidence, circumstantial or not.

Before the devil advocates further, Julia appends, "Of course, I may have one or two, tucked away in a drawer somewhere…"

My elation drowns instantly.

Oblivious to the tidal crush of my disappointment, she continues, waving vaguely in explanation, "Things got rather… jumbled, during our break-up. What belonged to him, what belonged to me – he argued about everything. Everything," she repeats, her eyes slipping from the photograph, glazing over in a fog of memories. "To be honest, I understood his bitterness, his desire to hurt me. Because _he_ was hurt, deeply, by what Denny and I shared, by its magnitude and intensity. Paul knew that _we_ would never… could never… cultivate a bond that profound. And he was threatened by what he couldn't comprehend." Her lips twitch, though whether in sorrow or sympathy, I cannot discern.

"So," she inhales acutely, "Realizing that he was losing me… that he had already lost me… he lashed out, seeking to show his superiority however he could. Which happened to be through petty bickering over who got what." Releasing a tired sigh, she catches my gaze. "I'm sure that you enjoyed the privilege of his controlling personality, when you questioned him?"

I offer an affirming nod at her lifted brow.

Her head drops slightly in response, before she says in a stronger voice, "Anyway, the knives…" tipping the photograph toward me, "…I just didn't want to force the issue. Because, although I cherished the _symbolic_ value of Paul's gift, the knives them_selves…_" She elevates her shoulders in a self-effacing shrug. "I'm something of an amateur chef, so I'm pretty finicky about my kitchenware. And those knives, well… They were one step above the generic Wal-Mart brand. The blades weren't balanced properly, and the handles' grips were poorly designed. Especially for me," she exhibits a petite hand in apologetic clarification. "They just weren't suitable for true culinary productions, and since cooking is an art…" She fades into memory, into herself.

Simultaneously, her final phrase transports _me_, into the dichotomous realm of my childhood, where violence and vitality were twined together in an indivisible union.

_Cooking is an art._

Four short words, rewinding twenty-four years in the beat of a heart. A beating heart.

A bleeding heart…

_No, sweetie, not like that._

My mother's laugh rose from deep in her throat as she gently bumped me aside with her hip.

_It's all in the wrist. See…_

Her crisp, competent motions, wielding the knife with a fluid expertise. Dicing the onions with a staccato _rat-a-tat-tat_ of the blade against the cutting board.

_It says…_ scrunching my nose, I deciphered the text of the flour-encrusted cookbook, _…two tablespoons of thyme…_

_Oh, Sara_, she chided, swatting me playfully across the cheek with a fresh sprig of that herb. _This isn't a science experiment…_

Proficiently dissecting leaves from stems, her actions possessed an idle agility. Moving in an unconsciously choreographed culinary dance.

_The recipe's only a guideline…_

Smiling, she handed me the knife. Handle first.

_Cooking is an art…_

The last quartet of words lingers, dangling crookedly in the still air of our glass cloister. Fallen notes draped over a musical staff. Falstaff's fugue, ricocheting down the vacant halls of my past, into the hollow present, and then back again.

_Cooking is an art…_

Repeating endlessly, in temporal stereo – my mother's mellifluous contralto, resurrected to accompany Julia's dulcet soprano, in perfect harmony. Blending together to bleed through the tangible atmosphere of foreshadow, ominously blanketing the room.

_Cooking is an art… an art… art… artartart.tart… tart…_

The newly-melded pitch hovers, a measured intake of breath.

…_tart…_

Gaining momentum, pulsing. An erratic harbinger of epiphany.

…_tart… tart..tart… tart…_

Poe's telltale heart, nestled beneath the warped floorboards of my life.

Suddenly, flooding my mouth and nasal passages is the acrid stench of blood, of iron unalloyed, unallayed, by magnesium. A horrifyingly nauseating dread amasses in my abdomen, a black amoeba slowly but inexorably engulfing me.

Phagocytosis of the soul.

Metaphorically, meta_morph_ically, like Alice upon sampling Wonderland's delicacies, I experience the unnerving, enervating sensation of outgrowing my skin, of expanding outside myself. Even as the glass walls of my prison close in.

Ten feet tall, in a shrinking cell. After childishly obeying the edict _Eat Me._

Overhead, the fluorescent lights dim, their stark brilliance diminished under the pall cast by the brewing storm of revelation. The previously shaded truth, the shades of truth, shrouded in lies – sherds, cutting through my defensive membrane of calculated ignorance. Pushing on the boundaries of cognition.

I push back. In a losing crusade.

The similarity, the kinship with Julia that I sensed only moments ago… I now wonder if it is a reflection, not of my _self_, but of my _mother_, that she mirrors.

_The suave dissembling cobra wears a hood…_

As I stare at her hands, absently fingering the outline of the photographed knives, their prior delicacy transmutes into a deft dexterity. Acquiring a subtle, supple strength.

All too familiar to me.

…_disguise beguiles and mortal mischief's done…_

It's all in the wrist.

…_for deadly secrets strike when understood._ ((5))

In a blinding eclipse, the black premonition that I sought to elude crashes into my consciousness. Past and present intersecting in a fatal collision.

There are no survivors.

* * *

((1)) Excerpt from the poem _The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower_, by Dylan Thomas.  
((2)) Excerpt from the novel _The Corrections_, by Jonathan Franzen, 2001.  
((3)) Excerpt from the poem _The Rabbit Catcher_, by Sylvia Plath, 1962.  
((4)) The poem _I'm beginning to know myself_, by Fernando Pessoa (translated by Richard Zenith). Actually, it's credited to one of his heteronyms, Alvaro de Campos. Pessoa created more than a dozen alter egos, each with distinct writing voices and personalities and lives (birthdays, professions, beliefs, etc). From his posthumous autobiography, _The Book of Disquiet_ – "I've never done anything but dream. The only thing I've ever desired is what I couldn't even imagine… In my imagination I line up the characters – so alive and dependable! – who occupy my inner life, and this makes me feel cosy, like sitting by a warm fire in winter. I have a world of friends inside me, with their own real, individual, imperfect lives…"  
((5)) Excerpts from the poem _Admonitions_, by Sylvia Plath.

Reference was also made to _Hansel and Gretel_, by the Brothers Grimm (Wilhelm and Jacob), and _The Telltale Heart_, by Edgar Allan Poe. And, once again, _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_, by Lewis Carroll. Also, I snatched a few lines of dialogue from the season 5 episode _Committed_.

Whew! I think that's it for the bibliography for this chapter. I realize that it may be (more than) overkill to list _every_thing that I reference, but… I believe in credit where credit is due. Plus, I'm enough of a geek to enjoy looking up sources mentioned in other people's writing, when something really grabs me. So, just reciprocating for all of you literary folks out there. Oh, and I can't claim credit for stumbling across the chemical similarity between chlorophyll and hemoglobin. The recognition lies with Annie Dillard (_Pilgrim at Tinker Creek_ is an _amazing_ book), as well as my organic chemistry prof back in college, for teaching me enough to know that I've vastly simplified the comparison between the two molecules. Poetic license is a wondrous thing… –grins–

**Large, and largely irrelevant, author's note to follow:**

Gasp! A (mini-)cliffhanger. Not the norm for me, but this ending served as a natural breaking point, as the next chapter will have a slightly altered voice and pace. The plot thickens, no?

(To my anonymous reviewer **maybe** – Of _course_ there had to be a twist. –winks– There's always a twist, right? So expect a very twisty-and-turny, topsy-and-turvy conclusion to the case, in the style of the show itself. And, my wholehearted thanks, for your lovely words. Anyone who can incorporate 'potentialities' into a review earns a gold star in my book.)

I apologize, once again, for the inexcusable delay of this chapter. I'd offer excuses but, well, it was inexcusable. It's actually been sitting around, largely written, for quite a while, but I was struggling with what comes next and, until I got that sorted out, I couldn't be certain that this chappie would integrate into it. But now, I think (I _hope_) that I've got my ducks in a row, although I make absolutely no predictions on how many 'ducks' there will be. I know that the pace of this story (not to mention the pace of my writing of it) is rivaling that of a heavily-sedated snail, but I'm finding it fascinating, delving into Sara's thoughts and emotional state. (This chapter existed largely inside of Sara's head and unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your opinion), the next installment or two look to be more of the same.) I hope that it's at least interesting and realistic enough not to bore you entirely. I really do appreciate all of your patience, in putting up with the diversions that my muse takes me on. I wasn't intending to engage in this deeper psychological exploration of Sara at the moment, but… it felt right. And helps set the scene for forthcoming chapters. Once again, I yielded the reins to my muse, and once again she galloped off in an unexpected direction. Writing this story has led me down unexpected avenues, and although I have a definite ending in mind, I seem to be exploring the side roads and alleyways rather than the main thoroughfares. So, it'll take longer to reach the final destination – right now, I have 50 pages of 'detours' that are partially or wholly written – but I hope that there's entertainment to be had, along the way. As always, comments and suggestions are happily welcomed.

And to those of you who have sent reviews and e-mails over the past few months – If I didn't respond to you personally, I'm terribly sorry. I certainly meant to, but real life caught up with me…and then sped right on by. I've been feverishly trying to catch up ever since…


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